


On This Night and in This Light

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27265426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Emma Swan knows she's pretty good at what she does.Helping the magically afflicted and affected find jobs in this realm isn't the most glamorous thing in the world, and, sure, there's a lot of paperwork, but she figures she's helping people and that's the important thing. It's structured. Calm, even.Until. It's always until.Killian Jones shows up with his stupid smirk and his tendency to lean against the door frame in Emma's office and his distinct lack of magic. Or knowledge of what they're really doing at Mills Personnel. Everything kind of goes off the rails after that.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 44
Kudos: 119





	1. Chapter 1

“So, that’s basically it. The guy was cursed, super greedy and—”  
  
“—Babe c’mon, that’s my dad.”

The guy shrugs. 

Which Emma figures is pretty fair, all things considered. Although she also can’t remember his name, so maybe she’s a quasi-villain in this story. She’s fairly certain it’s in the paperwork. The guy’s name, not her potential villain status. 

In her defense, that one lightbulb above her head is very distracting. Flickering on and off, she’s going to have to tell Graham about it, which will probably somehow alert Regina and Emma isn’t sure she’s capable of dealing with Regina right now. It’s been a very long morning. 

At— she glances at the tiny string of numbers in the bottom corner of her computer monitor, nine twenty-six in the morning. 

“Jeez,” Emma mumbles, drawing the attention of both of the people sitting in front of her. Not very often that a pair comes in. She supposes that’s nice. 

In an overwhelmingly, romantic kind of way. 

God, maybe she’s bitter. 

She’s totally bitter. Thinking anything else is ridiculous. 

And if Emma doesn’t get some coffee soon, she’s going to fall asleep at her desk and inevitably offend this nameless, albeit nice-looking guy who until recently was spending his days as a solid-gold statue in front of an antiques store on Broome Street. 

“Not—not you guys,” Emma says quickly, and the girlfriend’s eyes widen. Her name is Abigail. Emma’s, like, forty-six percent positive. 

“You know he didn’t mean it,” maybe-Abigail says. “It was...well, Freddie was very heroic about it. Protecting my dad and—he was head of security at the building. Kids thought it’d be funny to try and break in, but Freddie was—”  
  
“—Courageous?”  
  
“Very. The kids wanted my dad’s gift, but Freddie wouldn’t let them near him. Of course that made sure he was close to my dad and he...well, he got touched by accident and....”

Humming noncommittally, Emma lets the rest of the details float into the back of her mind. She doesn’t particularly want to hear this story. Most of them are the same, anyway. Heroic deeds beget undeserved rewards, and there’s always some sort of deus ex machina fix that’s inevitably magical, and she figures that’s part of the deal at this place, but that bitterness of hers runs far deeper than she’s willing to admit.  
  
“And you didn’t want to go back to work at the cursed dad’s office?”  
  
Freddie shakes his head. “Not really all that interested in security anymore. Ya get frozen for three years and it kinda loses its shine, y’know?”  
  
“Makes sense,” Emma replies, and she hates to admit it takes her that long to realize what he just said. Maybe she should have read the paperwork closer. She didn’t have time. “Wait, wait did you say three years?”  
  
“And, uh, like fourteen days. That’s right, right babe?”  
  
Abigail smiles. That must be the answer. “We’re just looking for a fresh start. My dad is—well, maybe greedy is the right word. He doesn’t view this as a curse, it's...I called it a gift before, didn't I?” Emma nods, trying desperately to ignore the state of that light bulb. “Nothing we do is going to change his mind. He’s going to keep it, and he tries to be careful, but—one wrong move and there’s a golden something right in front of you. We don’t want to risk it again. That’s why we came here. It’s supposed to be the best placement service in the city.”

Biting back the immediate retort of _it’s the only placement service like this in the city_ , Emma plasters what she can only hope is an encouraging smile on her face. The lightbulb stops flickering. 

It dies. Completely. 

She hopes that’s not a sign. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” she stammers, before turning back to her keyboard and a monitor with time that must be going backwards. “So, three years removed from any interaction with society and that’s—” Her smile is making her cheek muscles ache. “What kind of skills do you have, Mr. Greyston? Any specific interests or ideas about what you want to do?”

Freddie does not have any ideas. Or interests. Or concerns besides Abigail, it seems. Who is not just his girlfriend, but his fiancée, and a rather vocal wealth of both ideas and interests, none of which fit any of the potential jobs Emma spends the next forty-seven minutes finding. 

Something is wrong with each and every one. Wrong location. Too far a commute. Weird hours. Requires a uniform and—“Have you seen the width of Freddie’s shoulders? There’s no way he’d be able to wear a mass-produced jacket like that.”

Emma hasn’t been paying much attention to the width of Freddie’s shoulders, honestly. 

She’s far more preoccupied with the pain blooming behind her left eye and, somehow, at the base of her skull and she’s a few seconds away from turning both Freddie and Abigail into frogs when she hears footsteps approaching her half-open office door and he actually has the gall to cross his feet at the ankle when he leans against the frame. 

“What about personal training?”

Both Abigail and Freddie freeze. One of them tilts their head. Presumably in thought. Emma can’t be bothered figuring out which one. 

Not with her fingers hovering over her keys, the pop of her lips as they fall open sounding far louder than it should and the stranger leaning against her door frame smiles at her. 

Smirks, really. One side of mouth tugs up, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled halfway up his forearms. It’s offensive, that’s what it is. 

As is the overall shade of blue in his eyes. 

“Can I help you?” Emma asks. Demands, honestly. One word comes out sharper than the last, drawing a soft chuckle from the questionably good-looking stranger and that’s—

No. No compliments. Just insults. Of the sharp-tongued variety. 

Most curses require a sharp tongue, in Emma’s experience. And she suddenly finds herself fantasizing about the several different ways she could curse this self-assured bastard to the other side of the office. 

“I think, love,” he says, leaning forward like that’s allowed, “I might be able to help you. Couldn’t help but overhear—”  
  
“—Because you were eavesdropping?”  
  
“Inevitable when your voice carries the way it does.”

Her mouth is already hanging open, so Emma can only imagine what she looks like when it feels as if her eyes are also intent on falling out of her face. Not great, if the increased smirk'ness of the smirk is any indication. 

Smirk'ness is not a word. 

“Personal training could be kind of cool,” Freddie muses with interest. Abigail beams. Emma comes up with twenty-nine different curse possibilities. “Don’t you need something for that, though? Like a certificate or something?”  
  
Blue-eyed bastard, fuckface chuckles again. “You do, in fact. ‘Fraid you can’t simply approach strangers and start training them. But the requirements aren’t hard to complete and there’s always a fairly high demand for trainers. People want to get in shape, y’know?”  
  
Suggesting that there’s no way this guy with his stupid sleeves could know the exact tone Freddie had used to a voice very similar question not even an hour earlier is as stupid as his sleeves, but Emma cannot rationalize any of this and she should have known he was out there. 

Lurking in the hallway, as it were. 

There’s always some sort of—signal. A smell. A flicker of familiarity that ripples up her spine and latches to the back of her brain and she assumes the migraine that now seems pretty inevitable is not that. It’s just painful. 

Nothing else. She didn’t feel anything. She should have felt something, unless—

“No,” she gasps, and she’s got to get a handle on her audible reactions. “I, uh—I mean, no, no, that’s a great idea, actually. What do you think Mr. Greyston?”

Freddie narrows his eyes. “I...I just said it sounded cool.”  
  
“He did,” the wanker with that one piece of wayward hair hanging across his forehead says, “I heard it. Didn’t you hear it?”  
  
Nodding emphatically, Abigail is far too quickly swayed by all of this. “I did and that’s—Emma, why didn’t you think of that before?”  
  
Anger curls low in Emma’s gut. Rises in the back of her throat and threatens to scorch every inch of her tongue, like that’s something an emotion is capable of. Fisting her hands under her desk, the edges of her nails leave crescent-moon shaped cuts on her palm, but she doesn’t have another outlet for the energy running through her. 

Especially if she’s right. 

She’s seventy-two percent positive she’s right. Which is better than how she felt about Abigail’s name, and she was totally right about that, so. 

Math, or whatever. 

“Didn’t even cross my mind,” Emma admits through clenched teeth. “But thankfully we’re a collaborative effort here at Mills Personnel, and it’s always good to get multiple opinions, including some from our newest—”  
  
Swallowing her tongue isn’t the most embarrassing thing Emma can do in a moment like this, but it’s starting to feel somewhere in the top five and if this guy doesn’t stop staring at her like that she’s going to scream. 

Or self combust with magic. 

Her magic appears to be running on overdrive. 

“Killian Jones,” he says, answering a question she hadn’t actually gotten around to asking. “It’s my first day,”

“Is it just?”  
  
His answering hum isn’t as sarcastic as Emma’s was. She supposes that’s another failure of hers today. Her brain’s already started making a list. “Did you know they have an espresso machine in the break room?”  
  
“I work here,” Emma answers. 

“As I can see. Just—”  
  
“—Trying to tell me about espresso?”  
  
The other side of his mouth moves. That suggests Emma is staring at his mouth, which she might be, honestly. When she isn’t wholly preoccupied with his eyes or that one strand of hair, and she can’t believe that one strand of hair exists, but she’s also a witch and Freddie was made of gold and she never did ask how they managed to fix that. 

Emma’s starting to wonder if she actually sucks at her job. 

“Make conversation,” Killian says. “And maybe help a little bit. That’s the gig, isn’t it?”  
  
None of the muscles in Emma’s neck are particularly interested in nodding, but her hair moves so that must mean she accomplishes at least some sort of movement and the two pairs of eyes sitting in wholly uncomfortable chairs opposite her are watching the scene with open interest. “Alright,” she says brusquely, certain Killian’s eyes get brighter, “Mr. Greyston, let’s start working on a plan for getting your certification and then we can set up some contacts with area gyms.”

She’s not sure when Killian leaves, exactly. 

Only that he doesn’t try closing the door behind him and when Emma walks into the breakroom thirty-one minutes later, there’s a post-it with ridiculously swirly handwriting clinging to the espresso machine. Try this one, it says. 

And that doesn’t really make sense. It’s an espresso machine, there aren’t a ton of different options. Emma’s almost charmed all the same. 

* * *

It wasn’t True Love’s Kiss. 

Frederik Greyston wasn’t released from his gilded prison by the most sweepingly romantic bit of magic in the world. It was water from Nostos, which Emma knows is expensive and hard to come by, but knowing the little she does about Abigail’s father, it makes sense and she’s disappointed all the same. 

Six years working at Mills Personnel and still not a single person has been saved by the power of True Love’s supposed Kiss. 

She’s starting to think it doesn’t even exist. 

* * *

Honestly, the whole thing is Mary Margaret’s fault. 

She’s the one who got Emma the job after all, and maybe that’s more a commentary on Emma’s disinterest in joining the traditional workforce or being a functioning member of society, but she’s also quick to argue that society hasn’t really done much for her lately. Not a ton of professional options for someone with a record and the tendency to glow every now and then. 

So, Emma had agreed to the interview. 

On a Thursday at two in the afternoon, at the office tucked into the bottom floor of a building on 62nd Street, with etched letters on the door. 

Mills Personnel, it said. 

And still does, really. Not much has changed since Emma first walked into Regina’s office, least of all the lettering on her door, but she’d like to believe she’s maybe a bit more confident than she was that time and—

“Regina, is this a joke?” Emma asks, not able to sit in one of the chairs. Pacing seems entirely more reasonable, even as the muscles in her calves start to ache. “Because it can’t—none of this makes any sense.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Repeating myself is redundant.”  
  
Making a noise Emma can only assume is an agreement, Regina doesn’t bother looking up from the paperwork in her hands. Another client. Another problem. Something else Killian Jones can probably solve. 

Nearly a week after the incident in Emma’s office, the new guy is apparently some kind of job placement wunderkind, able to match any person with their dream position while also boasting a wealth of contacts across the city. Yelp reviews have appeared in droves — sent to Emma nearly every morning because apparently Ruby has some sort of sick sense of humor, and only a few of them mention Killian’s rolled-up sleeves. 

That’s insane. 

Emma can’t imagine not mentioning his rolled-up sleeves.

Maybe she’s part of the problem, actually. Just like—with society, as a whole. 

“You want to repeat yourself, don’t you?” Regina asks knowingly, drawing a strangled sound out of Emma that nearly makes her trip mid-pace. One should not affect the other. And yet. Everything seems to be falling apart in rather quick succession, the kind of worry that’s already taken root in the center of her and wrapped its way around every single one of her ribs, and she’s got no idea how many ribs she’s currently in possession, but she figures it’s got to be a lot. 

Based almost entirely on the constant tightness in her chest. 

“How are you not freaking out about this?”  
  
Regina shrugs. “Nothing’s going to happen. People love him.”  
  
“People think he’s got a good-looking face.”  
  
“You think that and—” Sputtering on her own inevitably witty retort, if only she could get it out, Emma can’t do much more than dramatically exhale as soon as Regina does lift her eyes. Leveling her with that same look she’d used during Emma’s initial interview, like she’s got all the answers in the world and will be willing to share them. 

Eventually. At her leisure. 

“He doesn't have magic,” Emma hisses, feeling as if she’s lost her last tether to reality. No one else is worried about this. Ruby has at least eighty-four opinions on Killian’s face. David’s not totally swayed, but thinks the guy’s at least doing a good job so far. Mary Margaret wants to invite him to game night next week. 

To play goddamn Settlers of Catan. Like they’re normal people. And not witches, or some other unnecessarily gendered description of magic-users. 

“He—he,” Emma continues, and now her hands have joined the fray. Waving them around her head only makes her feel more insane. “How can you think that he’ll be able to place people in jobs when he doesn’t know why they really need jobs?”  
  
Her voice cracking on the question can’t help her cause much. 

But Emma needs this to stay the same. She needs consistency and maybe not comfort, but comfort-adjacent and the fucking Settlers of Catan. At some point, she’s going to win that dumb game, she’s positive. 

And Killian Jones poses a very real threat to all of those alliterative sentiments. 

Because Mills Personnel is not a normal job placement organization. Emma’s not even sure it’s an organization, technically. Maybe an LLC.

She’s not a lawyer. 

The point is, it caters to—a slightly different sort of clientele. The kind that’s been affected by magic. Whether that’s because they’re in possession of it, or have been cursed by it, or are only spending some time in this realm while hiding from a revenge-prone dragon in their homeland, who also happened to be their mother, and need a job while they wait it out. 

That last one has always been Emma’s personal favorite. Lily spent three years working for an appraiser on Park Avenue. 

She was really good at it. 

And Emma is good at this. At helping. At providing people with their own plan, and their own possibilities and she has got to get off this alliterative kick because—

“Hey,” Regina mutters, nodding towards Emma’s hands. Both of which are dangerously close to phosphorescent “Reign it in for me, huh?”  
  
“Seriously, how can you be so calm about this?”

“He needed a job.”  
  
“What? How did you even find him?”  
  
Squeezing one eye shut, Regina clicks her tongue thoughtfully and it’s almost enough to make her seem like a normal person. Instead of a person who can regularly summon fireballs from her palms. “Friend of Robin’s. I think you met him last solstice party, but—that’s not the important part. Anyway, we worked with Scarlet once. Or David did, helped him get a job in Brooklyn after he’d been stoned in Wonderland.”  
  
“I’m sorry, stoned in Wonderland?”  
  
“Mmhm, literally. Anyway, his girlfriend’s known Killian for years and he just moved to New York and one thing led to another and here we are.”  
  
“Here we are,” Emma echoes.  
  
“The repeating thing isn’t just redundant, it’s obnoxious,” Regina sighs, finally moving the papers. It’s not a victory for Emma. Not when it only ensures Regina can also lean back in her chair, cross her arms over her chest and tilt her head at that very specific angle that practically radiates judgment. “He just needs some money for a couple of months. He’ll be out of here before anyone will have a chance to enlighten him on what he’s actually doing.”  
  
“Giving jobs to magical people.”  
  
“Not all of them are magical,” Regina argues, “some of them have just been impacted by magical forces.”  
  
“Yuh huh. And how exactly are we hiding all of these magical forces from Killian Jones, totally mortal human being?”  
  
The head tilt’s at nearly forty-five degrees now. “You are mortal, you know that right? It’s important that you know that.”

“I know that,” Emma snaps, flickers of light falling from her fingertips for good measure. “I just—when you hired me, you made it very clear that the line between magic and the rest of the world was tenuous at best. We just...we exist and hope no one burns us at the stake, but now you’re totally cool with some inherently normal guy being here. Everything we do is going to freak him out.”  
  
“It hasn’t already. And so long as you stop sparking at regular intervals, I think you’ll be fine.”  
  
“I’m not worried about me.”

Widening her eyes, Regina's judgment reaches across the questionably originate mahogany desk, hangs in the air for all of fourteen seconds and then smacks Emma squarely across the face. In a magical sort of way that makes her skin tingle. 

“Not cool,” she mumbles, but Regina doesn’t do much more than sneer. “Alright, fine, fine, you think this is a totally great idea—”  
  
“—I didn’t say it was great. I said it wasn’t going to be as bad as you thought it was going to be, and we’re doing some old customers a favor.”  
  
“Sounds suspiciously like nepotism.”  
  
“Or good business.”

Emma rolls her eyes. She’s getting another migraine. “Tell all your friends about Mills Personnel, the only option for the magical and magic-damaged to ensure they can keep paying their rent.”  
  
“Not as catchy as I’d like, but I accept that it’s a work in progress.”

“Yeah, yeah, something like that.”  
  
Having never sat down, it’s easy for Emma to make a quick and relatively drama-free exit from Regina’s office, swinging open the door and marching into the hallway and—

“Ah, fuck,” she grunts, slamming into something far too solid to be anything except another human being. Who smells suspiciously like laundry detergent and salt water. 

“Swan.”

She blinks. Once. Twice. Tries to remember that she is in fact mortal, and that requires a consistent stream of oxygen in her lungs. But breathing is something of a challenge now, and he’s smirking at her when she finally lifts her head.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Walking,” Killian answers easily, but there’s a hint of laughter clinging to the word that manages to frustrate Emma and do the exact opposite all at once. “Do you have somewhere especially important to go?”  
  
“No, no, that’s—why do you say that?”  
  
“Seems you’re in something of a rush.”  
  
“Or you take up way too much of the hallway.”  
  
Full-blown laughter is at least twenty-thousand times better than the clinging variety or whatever sound Emma’s managed to imagine he makes in the last week or so. She hasn’t imagined it that much. She’s a God awful liar, actually. 

“That might be true,” Killian admits, taking a step back, and there’s a pile of papers resting on his hip. A pen barely stays behind his ear, that same wayward strand of hair taking up residence across his forehead and the rolled-up sleeves of this shirt appear to have some sort of floral pattern on them. 

“What are—” Emma swallows. Licks her lips, Tries not to spend too long thinking about the undeniable way Killian’s eyes fall to her lips. “Where are you going?”  
  
“Back to my office. Woman in there who claims her only talent is singing, but she’s not too keen on performing. Says she doesn’t want to draw a spotlight. So, trying to come up with some other options for her.”  
  
Mind racing, Emma tries to figure out what the woman _actually_ is or who she’s hiding from, but explaining any of that is impossible and she’s admittedly having some trouble forming sentences when Killian keeps doing that thing with his face. Having one. 

“Any suggestions?” he asks, and there’s no sarcasm. No joke. Just blatant interest and possibly some veiled hope, which is not a word Emma’s all that familiar with. 

That’s more Mary Margaret’s schtick, and at least this is passably cyclical. Somehow this has to be Mary Margaret’s fault too. 

“What about working for a promoter or something?” Emma ventures. “You know—backstage sort of stuff. Keep her in the industry, let her work with other talent, but none of that pesky spotlight. Probably plenty of people looking for an assistant or something.”

Stunned surprise could be very insulting, as far as expression-based responses go. Luckily for Killian and his face, it’s a pretty fantastic look. Particularly when it’s directed at Emma. And mixed in with something that feels suspiciously like awe.

She’s not especially concerned with the adjectives. All she knows is it makes her magic roar in her ears, threatening to knock her knees together. 

“Wow,” he mutters, “that’s genius.”  
  
“Happens from time to time.”  
  
“More often if breakroom information is anything to go by.”

On second thought, embarrassed regret is her new unexpected favorite. Color dots Killian’s cheeks, a red tinge to the tip of his ears and it really says far more about him than Emma’s powers of observation that it’s only now she realizes he’s missing his left hand. 

“I, uh—” Killian stutters, and Emma can’t help the stretch of her smile, “well it’s not that I’m gossiping about you per se, just...making conversation.”  
  
“And I’m a hot topic of conversation?”  
  
“No, no, you’re just—” His inability to finish sentences is also oddly endearing, the muscles in his throat moving as he swallows back what Emma can only hope would be a slightly twisted compliment. Regarding her and the word hot. “Well, I appreciate the help. Sometimes it feels like it’s impossible to get a straight answer out of these people. None of them know what they want to do.”  
  
Cold sweeps over Emma, in the form of crushing realization and a return to a reality with starkly-lit hallways. He doesn’t know. Can’t know. About this place, or what it really does, and Regina’s surprisingly cavalier attitude aside, non-magic users finding themselves in the entirely magical world never ends well. 

Someone always gets hurt. 

“Yeah, no problem,” Emma says as she takes her own step back, and that shouldn’t be as difficult as it is. “If—I mean if you ever get another hard one or…” 

Her face is on fire, she’s sure. Spontaneous combustion would be a small miracle, giving her a legitimate out of this conversation and the latest expression that’s now standing several feet away from her. Self-satisfied, that’s the word. 

Or phrase, as the case may be. 

“If you need some more ideas,” she clarifies, “I’m around. You helped me with that Greyston case, after all.”  
  
It’s not a cease fire or metaphorical hatchet buried under Regina’s questionable taste in carpet, but it’s _something_ and if this is going to happen, then Emma reasons she might as well try and keep it all in check. Helping Killian helps everyone, really. 

She’ll repeat that on mental loop for several hours if necessary. 

Right after she stops obsessing over the precise way he leans forward, ducks into her eye line and says, “thanks, Swan.”

* * *

It isn’t until she’s managed to plug her phone in, exhaustion creeping up her spine and fluttering behind half-closed eyelids that Emma realizes she never once told Killian her name. 

* * *

When she was twelve years old, she lit up. Like, her whole body. Light hung from the ends of her hair and circled her right wrist, wrapped its way up her arms and settled on either one of her shoulders until it was difficult for anyone to spend too long looking at Emma. 

None of it was on purpose. 

Magic’s always been something almost instinctual, at least for Emma, and the yelling from the living room of the latest foster home she’d only recently been shipped to had been grating on her ears long enough that she didn’t know what else to do. She reacted. Power rippled off her in perfect cadence with her frustration, and she hadn’t known all those words when she was twelve, but she’d known exactly how everyone would respond and Emma was not disappointed. 

At least not like that. 

Standing halfway down the steps, she’d glowed. Bright and determined, like being strong enough would protect the rest of the kids in that house, and that was never really Emma’s job, but she always felt like she could do something more, or should do something else and—

They’d sent her back the next day. 

Something about _a bad fit_ and _just not right_ and that second thing could have been the sub-headline of Emma’s entire life. 

Just not right. 

Nothing about her was right. Her magic was often untempered and prone to outbursts, flashes that Emma couldn’t always control and inevitably led to lingering glances and confused stares that rather quickly morphed into fear when they looked too long. 

Sometimes people pretend they’re not totally freaked out. Sometimes they tell her that she’s ok, every lie settling under her skin like it’s something she should believe in, and it’s been awhile since Emma’s allowed something like that to happen, but she imagines there’s a cliché about scars and the way they don’t always disappear and—

That’s not important. 

History is just that and Emma’s not one to make the same mistake twice. Or at least make it more than twice, and she might be intrigued by Killian Jones, with his smirk and his stupid sleeves, but she doesn’t entirely trust him yet. 

She can’t imagine that changing any time soon. 

* * *

She nearly runs into whoever is opening the Mills Personnel front door at five-oh-four on a Friday evening. 

It’s a habit Emma would like to break sooner rather than later, this trend of not looking where she’s going — although, if she’s being honest it’s also because she’s distracted, and has been since the game night announcement, and the phone in her pocket hasn't stopped buzzing for the last hour, the most recent texts regarding pre-game night plottings and alliances for Settlers of Catan or whatever else they decide to play. 

She has respond to Mary Margaret soon. 

Presumably after she apologizes to the woman she very nearly plowed over, and it’s almost the end of business, but this woman doesn’t look like she operates on traditional schedules and—

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma says, backing up quickly. Partially because of good manners. And the rest because of the look on the woman’s face. 

Furious. A little threatening. Decidedly magical. 

“I’m looking for Ms. Mills.”  
  
“Right, yeah, of course. She’s, uh—” Emma’s phone buzzes again, and she knows it’s another message about games. What she can figure out is why that particular thought leaves her feeling frozen and a little threatened and the woman’s eyes narrow at the first shift of Emma’s magic. “Still in her office, I think. I can let her know you’re here, if…”  
  
The woman doesn’t nod. Doesn’t move, really. And all Emma wants is to sprint out of that office and maybe to her couch, but she can’t seem to move any of her limbs and the clack of Regina’s heels is strangely hypnotic. 

“Zelena. What are you doing here?”  
  
Rolling her shoulders back, the woman Emma assumes is Zelena only looks passably annoyed at being addressed by her first name. “We have some things to talk about.”

“That so?”  
  
“Several, I’d say. You have a few minutes?”  
  
It doesn’t sound like an actual request, hackles that are more likely part of Ruby’s genetic makeup than Emma’s rising as Zelena breezes by her. Glancing over her shoulder, she notices a muscle in Regina’s temple jumping.

“You want me to stick around?”  
  
Regina shakes her head. “No, I’ll be fine.”

“Ok, but—”  
  
“—Go, Emma,” Regina finishes, and there’s no mistaking the command in those words. She nods once, not running into anyone else on her way out and hoping the sense of dread currently twisting itself around one of her kidneys is only those pessimistic tendencies of hers, instead of the warning she’s worried it actually is. 

* * *

The problem is, she likes him. 

Like, as a human being. Mortal or otherwise. No other reason. Nothing to do with his hair or his eyes or that dim, but still visible scar on his left cheek. 

She just—

They might be friends. Emma hopes they’re friends. 

Over the next two weeks she comes to realize that Killian is not only very good at his job — the siren who was certain her only talent was singing in dimly lit clubs and inevitably luring grown men to their doom, but wanted to turn over a new leaf, without telling him any of that, of course, sent a gift basket to thank him for all the help — but he’s funny, and more than capable of working the espresso machine so it doesn’t produce its usual bitter swill, and, Emma realizes, one Wednesday afternoon, a little lonely. 

“Trying to find somewhere to live in this city is impossible,” he announces, slumped in one of the breakroom chairs with a stack of files splayed in front of him. “Like a needle in a haystack.”  
  
“Try finding somewhere with laundry on site,” Emma grins, “and then talk to me.”  
  
“Sounds like a palace, and that’s far too mythical for me to believe a place like that exists.”

Stomach flying into her mouth, Emma bites the side of her tongue so she doesn’t do something stupid like list all the clients of hers who, at one point, lived in a vaguely mythical palace. She can think of at least a dozen off the top of her head. “No palatial experience wherever you are now? Where are you now, actually?”  
  
“Scarlet’s couch.”  
  
“Ah, so decidedly non-palatial, then.”  
  
Killian grins. “Not as such, no. Although if you could not mention that to him, that would be great. Bastard won’t ever say it, but I've vastly overstayed my welcome and I’m pretty positive he and Belle spend their nights plotting ways to kick me to the curb.”  
  
“Metaphorical or…”  
  
“Absolutely literally,” he says, and that smile is nearly blinding in a way that isn’t quite like Emma’s magic, but feels as powerful. “You didn’t hear it from me, but I’m pretty positive they want to have a family soon.”  
  
“You think I gossip about Will Scarlet way more than I do.”

His ears do that thing again. That blushing thing, that apparently only Killian’s ears are capable of, but it’s also entirely possible that Emma is just far more aware of Killian’s ears than anyone else’s. She’s also perfectly aware what a psychopath she sounds like. 

“Did I apologize for that?”

“For?”  
  
“Not necessarily gossiping,” Killian says, “because it wasn’t entirely that, but—getting information on you, I guess.”

Tensing, Emma’s jaw clenches hard enough that she’s briefly worried about what it will do to her teeth. And it takes her a few moments to school her features — more than enough time for Killian’s eyebrows to lift, and the ends of his mouth to tilt down, but she’s almost confident she doesn’t look like she’s totally freaking out when she opens her mouth. 

“What did you find out?”  
  
Ah, so not freaking out was a total lie, then. 

Killian’s lips twist as he stares at her, like he’s considering the exact tone of her voice and how to properly proceed from there. Leaning forward, his hand inches towards hers and for one genuinely blissful second Emma is certain he’s going to cover her fingers with his. He doesn’t. He pulls away at the last moment, clearing his throat and sitting up straighter and that’s fine. It’s fine, everything is fine and great and—

“You’re very popular here,” he replies, “good track record of even better work, which is why If we’re also keeping track of required apologies, I should mention I’m sorry for butting in on the Greyston case. Was an absolute dick of a move.”  
  
“Would you use _of_ in that situation?”  
  
“I mean, I just did so—”  
  
“—You were kind of a dick,” Emma agrees, “but that was mostly because you were showing off and it totally worked.”

His eyebrows get higher. Pointier. It’s absolutely absurd. “That so?”  
  
“Don’t sound so amazed, you know it did. Freddie the former—” She’s about to say statute. The word sits on the tip of Emma’s tongue, waiting to be said because if she was talking to anyone else she’d be able to say it, but she’s not talking to anyone else and doesn’t really want to and she can’t imagine it’s very comfortable sleeping on someone’s couch for the better part of a month. “Former security guard,” Emma exhales, “is reportedly doing really well at the new gig. Ruby said she saw a bunch of social media posts advertising his recently-certified personal trainer services.”  
  
“An ambitious start for Freddie.”  
  
“Eh, you know how it is when you get psyched about something. Full-speed ahead and all that.”

“I believe that is the appropriate cliché, yes. So what do you think?”

“About?”

“Accepting my apology for being something of a dick, and because Ruby is the absolute worst gossip in this office who told me in no uncertain terms that she thought our prospective children would be very attractive.”

Emma’s not drinking anything, so the choking sound she makes at that bit of information is not really correct for the situation, but she can’t stop herself. Laughter bubbles out of her, mixing with something that isn’t quite stunned surprise, but might be a hint of put-upon frustration and the overall width of Killian’s smile is in the realm of overwhelming. 

“How did you end up here?” Emma asks, and she’ll blame the state of her teeth on her inability to censor her own questions. 

His smile falters. For just a moment, before it’s back and a little less legitimate than it was a moment earlier. “Worked with Belle at the Central Library in Boston. For years, actually. And you know how it is when you meet someone who...well, they’ll go to bat for you?”  
  
“Another good cliché. And yeah, I do.”  
  
“It was like that for us. She’s—it’s pedantic to suggest she’s my best friend, but that’s what it is and what it’s been and we’ve always helped each other. So, couple months ago when they cut staff, she told me to come to New York.”  
  
“She was already in New York?”

Killian nods. “Has been for a while, ever since she met Will.”  
  
“And how did she meet Will?”

If he’s put-off by her twenty question approach, Killian doesn’t show it. He just keeps leaning into her space, like there are magnets involved or several other words and feelings Emma’s wholly incapable of dealing with right now. “Strictly happenstance as far as I know. She was in New York for a library conference—”  
  
“—They have those?”  
  
“Mmhm, whole bunch of nerds losing their minds over recently stocked books and stories that fascist governments said we should burn.”  
  
“Do those normally go together?”  
  
“More often than you’d think,” Killian laughs. “Anyway, Will was working at the bar he owns now and—”  
  
“—He owns it?”

“If you keep interrupting, I’m never going to get to the interesting part of the story, love.”

Goosebumps explode on her skin. Her heart threatens to explode out of her chest. Magic rushes from the top of her hairs to the toes of sneakers that are now emitting a faint gleam, and maybe Emma should trim her nails. 

So as not to keep cutting up her palm. 

“Took him some time to save up the money to buy the bar,” Killian continues, “but if you know Scarlet, you’ll know he’s something of a stubborn asshole. Which also circles us right back around to the romance of the story. Suffice it to say, there were conversations, requests for phone numbers, a refusal to let time or distance damper their connection and—” He clicks his tongue. “—Two years ago, I gave a very impassioned speech regarding the power of love at a wedding that made several people cry.“

“You included?”

He winks at her. Not very well, but it’s the thought that counts or something and Emma’s starting to have several thoughts about Killian.

None of which are going to make it any easier to keep her magic a secret. 

And part of her isn’t even sure she wants to. The other part of her wants to stretch across this wobbly table, some of which is deceptively sticky, grab the front of Killian’s floral-printed shirt and kiss him until neither one of them think about anything except how fantastic they are at kissing. One another, specifically. 

So, really, she’s absolutely and monumentally fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make no excuses for this mess of adjectives, magic and nonsense. There will obviously be more of it next week. Please tell me what your favorite Halloween candy is and why it's either Milky Way or Reese's. 
> 
> And come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	2. Chapter 2

“She’s been stuck in a vase for the last century,” Emma explains, shoving the stack of file folders towards Ruby. Who cannot possibly be comfortable balancing on the back legs of the chair like she is, with her feet propped up on Emma’s desk. “Can you sit like a normal person for half a second, please?”  
  
Ruby does no such thing. She sticks her tongue out, instead. “So she’s been in a vase. Why should this concern me? That’s not even the worst curse I’ve heard of this week.”   
  
“Don’t lie to me like that.”   
  
“I’m not,” Ruby says, but that also sounds a bit like a lie and it’s only a matter of time until the chair falls over. “Two days ago, Mary Margaret got some guy who had been stuck in one of the trees in Central Park for like...hundreds of years. That’s multiple centuries, you know.”   
  
“I know how time works. This is not a competition.”   
  
“Isn’t it, though?”   
  
Emma sighs. “What happened to the guy?”   
  
“Oh, crazy powerful. Like—magic falling off him in waves, so Mary Margaret wanted to bring Regina in. Y’know, make sure we weren’t sending some evil force out into midtown Manhattan. But turns out he was straight up light magic. And super smart. Apparently being a tree leaves a lot of time to retain most of the known facts of the passing universe.”   
  
“Did Regina make him a resume?”

“And then some,” Ruby nods. “Fabricated some transcripts, got letters of rec, the whole nine yards, plus a few more football fields for good measure. Word on the street is he’s a cinch for the new philosophy job at Columbia.”  
  
“What street is that, exactly?”

Ruby flips her off. That’s fair. “What are you so worried about with vase lady? Give her a resume, send her on her merry way and be done with it.”  
  
“She’s got no real applicable skills for modern capitalism.”   
  
“Well, that’s because modern capitalism leaves a lot to be desired,” Ruby reasons. “Anything else? Pros, cons, potential for a girlfriend?”   
  
“There’s something wrong with you.”   
  
“You make out with the new guy yet?”   
  
Heat prickles the back of Emma’s spine. She ignores it. Badly, but an attempt is made. “He’s been here for like a month and a half. New guy is no longer an appropriate moniker.”   
  
“Right, right that’s not an answer, though.”   
  
“Why do you care?”

“Uh, because you obviously do?” Ruby quips, but it sounds like a challenge and an accurate one at that. If anything, Emma cares too much. “That same street is jam-packed with tourists and interested parties, all of them certain that you and Jones spend your lunch breaks together and have been spotted on more than one occasion, huddled together going over files and names like you’re going to save the human race with minimum-wage jobs.”  
  
“This is awfully cynical of you.”   
  
“I know! It’s like we’ve switched positions entirely. Although I already would have made out with the new guy, so it seems like we’ve each retained some of our more crucial characteristics.”

The heat moves. Shifts to the base of Emma’s spine and threatens to tug her through her chair, directly into the floor when she can only imagine it will engulf her in a rather small bonfire, fueled solely on her feelings for Killian.   
  
Of which there are—

More than she expected. 

It’s that stupid piece of hair. And, like, everything else. Every time he leans against her office door frame, her magic threatens to reach a boiling point. And she’s not sure if the specific glint that appears in his gaze whenever _that_ happens is legitimate or her own wishful thinking but it’s one of the few things Emma refuses to give credence to. 

“It will only end badly.”

Ruby’s eyes bug. “What will, exactly?”  
  
“He doesn’t have magic! He—Belle must know, right? She’s been with Scarlet long enough, you’d think he would have mentioned the stoning.”   
  
“Phrase that better.”   
  
“Shut up,” Emma mumbles. “I just...if Belle knew what this place was, then why would she and Will try to get a job for Killian here? It’s not safe for a normal.”   
  
“Oh my God, are you committed to that term? It’s awful. And you’re rehashing old points. I know for a fact you told Regina all of this when Jones got hired. If she’s not worried about it, why are you? Still?”

Emma doesn’t have an answer to that question. Or two questions, she supposes. 

At least not reasonable ones. Still, that especially pessimistic part of her brain borne of foster homes with drafty windows and thin blankets, and the deep-rooted certainty that everything was temporary, is quick to stretch out across the rest of her consciousness. 

Like it’s got claws, or something. 

“I just don’t want anything to happen.”

“You mean you don’t want him to freak out,” Ruby amends, only pulling her legs back so she can rest her chin on her bent knees. “Right?”  
  
“It’s not totally unreasonable.”   
  
“No, it’s not. But it’s also kind of depressing that you think it has to be.”   
  
“I don’t—” Emma starts, argument ready and only kind of rehearsed. There’s no chance for any other words, though. Not with footsteps coming towards them, and her door’s never entirely closed, but it still manages to squeak when Killian leans against the frame. 

With his feet crossed at the ankles. 

“Hey,” Emma says, far too breathless to be anything except flirting and Ruby’s lips all but disappear when she pulls them behind her teeth. “You, uh—can I help you?”

Furrowing his brows is also a reasonable response to that particular question, because he really does not deserve the “new guy” moniker anymore, and Emma knows he puts three packages of Splenda in his coffee. 

They go get coffee sometimes. Outside the breakroom. 

“Wasn’t really looking for any help, love,” Killian says, and Ruby doesn’t do anything. Emma will have to thank her for that at some point. “Just wanted to see what you were up to, but uh—” His eyes flit towards Ruby, whose face is still pointed at Emma, and that’s probably for the best since it doesn’t look like she’s taken a breath in the last two minutes. “I can come back later if you’re busy or—”  
  
“—No, no,” Emma shouts, at the same time Ruby exhales and spins and Killian’s eyebrows fly into his hairline. 

The whole thing is an unqualified disaster, honestly. 

“I’m not busy. I can—this can wait.”  
  
His eyes are definitely getting bluer. And Emma’s magic is very nearly out of control. Digging her heels into her shoes only sort of helps temper the light falling off her ankles. “Who’s the client, though? Anyone interesting?”   
  
“Oh, yeah,” Ruby says before Emma can stop her, “hasn’t ever had a job.”   
  
“Never?”   
  
“Unforeseen obstacles, I guess. Lots of—” She grabs the file, detailing Elsa’s curse and how her sister had been tricked into capturing her and the whole thing is kind of depressing. “Family issues, you could say.”   
  
“Huh, well good for them getting back out there, then. Not easy to start from scratch. Any leads on where you’re going to send them?”

Emma shakes her head, yanking the file out of Ruby’s hand and hopefully giving her a paper cut in the process. Not only is she a pessimist, she’s now the villain she wanted to avoid being. “Got a lot of interest in meteorology, I guess. Maybe try and get her an internship at NY1 or something.”  
  
“Wow, that’s ambitious.”   
  
“Yeah, well, I’m nothing if not the best at job placement.”   
  
No smirk. A genuine smile. Emma’s stomach tries to fly out of her mouth. That would be off-putting and might ruin the moment when Killian adds, “I did actually have some other reasons for showing up on your doorstep, Swan.”

“Making out,” Ruby coughs, but it’s not a very good cough and Emma can only be expected to control her magic for so long. 

“Mary Margaret invited me to your game night this weekend,” Killian says. “And I uh—well, I just wanted to see if you were going.”  
  
Blinking is not the best response. It’s a God awful one, actually. And the only one Emma is capable of. She’s all too aware of Ruby’s stare, and the blatant hope etched onto Killian’s face, but she can’t do anything except blink and breathe through her mouth and—

“Do you want to share an Uber or something?”

Any hint of nervous energy falls off him. Visibly, almost — leaving Kilian standing in Emma’s office doorway with a smile so wide she’s worried about the state of his face and the longevity of her heart’s ability to keep functioning when it’s beating this quickly. 

“Yeah, yeah, that would be great,” he says. “I...I could meet you at your apartment? I don’t think Belle and Scarlet were invited, but—”  
  
“—That’s stupid, and Mary Margaret would never exclude anyone. Tell them to come too.” Realizing what she’s said after the fact is kind of disappointing, but the words are already out there and just as visible as the other emotions and she’s going to blame Mary Margaret for all of this too. “I’m sure David would want to see Will again,” Emma says. “But, uh—if you still want to meet at my apartment, we can go together?”   
  
She feels like she’s standing at the edge of something. 

A cliff, or the shoreline. That’s a better analogy, actually. Waves lap at Emma’s toes, comforting in their rhythm, but with the potential to wash everything else away and she’s teetering on the edge of a full-blown spiral complete with metaphorical rip tide when she notices Killian’s head move. He’s nodding, that’s why. 

“Yeah, I’d love that.”  
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah,” he repeats. “It’s a date.”

He’s gone before Emma can make sense of the words, or what exactly they’re doing to any of her limbs. And it’s probably wrong to take some perverse pleasure when Ruby’s uproarious laughter turns into a pointed gasp. 

As soon as the chair wobbles underneath her. 

* * *

“I don’t have your number, actually.”

Another Friday, and Emma’s about to walk out of the office when she hears footsteps not-quite running, but possibly jogging rather briskly towards her and Killian’s already smiling when she turns around. “Oh,” she says, “uh, yeah I don’t think you do, actually.”  
  
“We should fix that, don’t you think?”   
  
There are suddenly too many things in her mouth. An expanding tongue and more teeth than the average human, Emma is sure. All of which makes it impossible for her to do anything other than nod slowly and reach her hand out even slower and the spark of something under her skin when Killian’s fingers graze her palm is almost akin to an electric shock. 

Putting in her number without dropping his phone on the floor feels like winning the lottery. 

Emma’s never won the lottery. In any variation. Like, not even a scratch-off ticket. 

“Do you want to get a drink, or something?”

Maybe she’s pushing her luck. Emma’s winning metaphorical lotteries now, so she’s not sure what the protocol is, but he called it a date and her magic is threatening to explode out of her and that all kind of culminates into—

“I’d love that,” Killian nods. Emphatically. Enthusiastically. Some other word that starts with the letter ‘e.’

They don’t make out in the cab, which is only kind of disappointing. 

And Will only laughs for twelve seconds when they walk into his bar. He doesn’t make either one of them pay. 

* * *

Of all the things Emma could be, while sitting on her couch waiting for a text message on Saturday night, nervous is absolutely the dumbest. 

Butterflies churn in her stomach, flapping their stupid metaphorical wings until she’s sure they pose a legitimate threat to several of her internal organs, and it’s a miracle she hasn’t started pacing yet. This feels like a line. One she’s not just crossing, but leaping over. 

With a pole vault, or something. 

She’s never been particularly athletic. 

But inviting Killian to game night seems like she’s also inviting him into the rest of her life, and Emma has found that’s exactly what she wants and Elsa had texted her that she’s got an interview with NY1 on Monday morning. So, really, Emma should feel good. At least cautiously optimistic, especially when her hair is cooperating. 

And sure—maybe that’s because she also magic'ed her hair to curl softly at the ends, but that’s neither here nor there, and she really just wants something to go right. She wants this to go right. With Killian. 

She’s started to think words like _with_ in regards to Killian, which is—

The front door buzzer...buzzes. 

Racing to the door, she nearly trips over her own feet before slamming her whole palm into the speaker. “Hi,” she says breathlessly, and she’s fairly certain she can hear the soft hum of Killian’s answering laugh. Might be more cautious optimism, though. 

“Hey love, you ready to go?”  
  
She nods before she remembers that Killian is actually several floors beneath her. “Yeah, yeah, lemme just put shoes on and then—is the car down there already?”   
  
“Very prompt, yeah,”   
  
The butterflies mutate. With more wings than the average breed, and probably just a hint more magical and Emma will never admit to closing her door behind her, blinking exactly once and appearing in the building’s lobby. 

Cutting out the stairs middle man makes sense in the moment. 

Killian doesn’t mention anything about it. Emma’s not sure he can, what with his jaw threatening to find the sidewalk and his chest moving as much as it is and the butterflies declare a decisive victory. “You look incredible, Swan.”  
  
She...did not expect that. She’d like to hear it seventy-five more times. 

“Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself. How come you don’t wear leather jackets at work?”  
  
“Trying not to overwhelm the general populace with how good I look in them.”   
  
“Ah, yeah, yeah, that’s fair,” Emma laughs, humming her thanks when he opens the car door for her. “Am I not the general populace, then?”

His hand is very close to hers. Enough that if one of them weren’t a goddamn idiot, they could flip their palm and lace their fingers together and it’s that realization that makes Emma do just that. Plus, the leather jacket. 

It’s ridiculous how good he looks in that leather jacket. 

Killian’s lips twitch. He squeezes Emma’s hand. “I don’t think so.”  
  
“Good to know,” Emma murmurs, and neither one of them tries to let go until they reach David and Mary Margaret’s apartment. 

* * *

In retrospect, maybe they should have come up with some ground rules. 

Because in the fifteen minutes since Emma and Killian walked into David and Mary Margaret’s apartment, it’s become blatantly obvious there’s more going on than meets the eye. It’s a set-up, is what it is, really. 

And not a very good one.

David keeps shooting furtive glances every time Emma shifts, like he’s waiting for her to jump Killian. And ok—so maybe the thought had crossed her mind in the backseat of the Uber, but she’s at least got some morals, and Belle’s inability to communicate nonverbally with Will is almost impressive. Every look is more absurd than the last, Ruby snickering on loop until it sounds like the inevitable soundtrack of the night. 

“Subtlety isn’t really one of your strong suits, is it?” Emma mumbles, leaning against the kitchen counter with a glass of wine in her hand that she knows won’t be strong enough to combat the night in front of her. 

Mary Margaret scrunches her nose. “Is it that obvious?”  
  
“Came with flashing neon lights and like...I don’t know, smoke or something.”   
  
“Suggests there were also potions involved.”

Eyes darting back towards the couch and the plethora of board games David supposedly “discovered” in the hallway closet, Emma tries desperately to keep her expression neutral and her pulse as calm as possible. Only one of those things works. Maybe, like, half a thing. But Killian doesn’t do much more than meet her gaze with an easy smile and that same sense of self-confidence Emma is starting to covet just a bit, because she’s starting to hope it’s catching.

No such luck yet, but apparently she’s something of a consistently cautiously optimist and she’s back on that alliterative kick again. 

“He’s the one who asked me if I was coming here tonight,” Emma reasons, “which seems kind of silly all things considered and—”  
  
“—Or maybe he just wanted to make sure you were going to be here and that’s all it was. Because he likes you.”

Strictly speaking, Emma has had boyfriends. She’s had—well, that’s not important, but there have been _things_. This is not a thing. She doesn’t want it to be. She wants it to be more than a thing, and something possibly important and she hasn’t been able to shake the way that Zelena woman glared at Regina, but Regina hasn’t brought it up, which makes it absolutely none of Emma’s business and her fingers are glowing. 

Not quite subtle, either. 

Mary Margaret looks victorious.

“Don’t do that,” Emma chides, but that only gets her more teeth with the smile and it’s not as threatening as it should be. Mary Margaret is predisposed not to be threatening. 

Prone to romantic subplot, maybe. But nothing so nefarious as threatening. 

“He doesn’t know anything,” Emma adds. “Like—about me, or Mills, or...any of it. You don’t think that’s a problem?”  
  
“To the prospect of your inevitably cute kids?”   
  
“Stop talking to Ruby so much.”   
  
Mary Margaret scoffs. “As if I have a choice in gossip participation. Although, I have to admit, she’s probably right. At the very least these potential kids would have nice eyes. Like turquoise or something.”   
  
More goosebumps appear on Emma’s forearms, which is only kind of lame, but she can also hear David and Killian arguing over who gets to be the thimble in the Monopoly game they’re apparently playing and that rather quickly takes precedent. And she’s momentarily distracted by the sock-covered footsteps moving into the kitchen. 

To the best of Emma’s knowledge, Will Scarlet doesn’t have any magic of his own — was simply cursed in another realm that one time, but it also seems like he’s got a few other talents and one of them is quite clearly eavesdropping. 

He’s also not subtle about it. 

So, that’s a trait all of them share. 

“He talks about you non-stop,” Will says without any preamble, “it’s honestly starting to get annoying. Emma this, Emma that, hair that can reflect the sun and all that pining garbage. Do you seriously put cinnamon in your coffee?”  
  
Mary Margaret’s shoulders shake. “Has for as long as I’ve known her.”   
  
“You don’t make it sound like the single most attractive thing anyone has ever done, though.”   
  
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to make out with Emma.”   
  
“Can you believe they haven’t made out yet?”   
  
“From what I’ve been told, there’s some sort of pool in the office.”   
  
Sliding down the counter and collapsing on the floor is a very interesting prospect all of the sudden. “Where did you hear that from?” Emma demands, but Mary Margaret just mimes zipping her lips shut and it’s the first time she’s been able to keep a secret in her life.   
  
“So, you don’t work for Mills,” Will continues, Mary Margaret shaking her head, “but are you…”

That gets him a nod.

“Can talk to animals,” Emma explains softly. “Makes her a favorite amongst the first graders at PS 31, and helps when Ruby’s transformed.”  
  
“And Ruby is a—”   
  
“Werewolf, yeah.”   
  
“Huh, huh, cool. Y’know I knew a couple genies in Wonderland?”   
  
Widening her eyes, Mary Margaret looks genuinely interested and Emma cannot believe this is a conversation they’re having so close to the decidedly non-magical guy she’d very much like to make out with. Sooner, rather than later. 

“Swan,” Killian calls from the living room, making her jump several inches, “if you want to pick your piece, you’re going to have to do it now or David is going to try and control everything!”

“I want the hat or I’m not playing,” Emma shouts, and David’s uproar over that is as entertaining as it is expected and it’s nice to realize she isn’t the only one who cheats at this game. 

By Emma’s count, Killian’s got at least two-thousand dollars hidden up his right shirt sleeve. 

He’s good at it, she has to give him credit. Bills disappear without much fanfare, just a quick shift of his wrist and the only tell he has is the tip of his tongue finding the corner of his mouth, but Emma’s also pretty goddamn preoccupied with his mouth and he’s just bankrupt Belle.

“Ah, c’mon,” she groans, “how do you have enough money to build hotels on Marvin Gardens? That should not be possible!”  
  
Killian shrugs. “Guess I’m just that much better at the game than you are, or something.”   
  
“Or something,” Emma agrees.   
  
“Thoughts to add, love?” 

Chaos doesn’t necessarily ensue at the endearment Emma is also starting to covet, but vaguely obvious looks are exchanged without much concern as to who sees them, and Ruby isn’t even trying to hide the phone she’s furiously texting into. 

“None whatsoever,” Emma promises. “Just that you’re a God awful cheater.”  
  
“Oh, God awful implies I’m not doing it well.”   
  
“And that sounded a hell of a lot like an admission.”

Shaking his head makes that one strand of hair shift again, the hint of a smile playing at the ends of his mouth. “I’ve got nothing to admit. Except that I’m something of a Monopoly master-mind, obviously.”  
  
“Move your arm, then.”   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“Does anyone else feel like we shouldn’t be here for this?” Will murmurs, grunting softly when Belle’s elbow collides with his stomach. 

“Move your arm,” Emma repeats slowly. “That hotel empire was built on dirty money, and I can prove it.”

All Killian does is grin. No smirk, no teasing. Just grins straight at Emma with the force of several thousand suns and—

Nothing falls out of his sleeve. 

Her jaw drops, magic fluttering at the back of her brain. “How did you do that?”  
  
“A master never reveals his secrets. Bad magical form.”   
  
“This is a magic trick, then?”   
  
Emma is glad none of them are spies. They’d all suck at it. Wide eyes meet somewhere in the air above her head, and she’s a little worried Ruby’s going to dislocate one of her thumbs with the speed of her typing. She still doesn’t look away from Killian. Can’t come up with a single reason to do anything except stare at him and commit the frankly absurd length of his eyelashes to memory. 

“At least an attempt,” Killian says. “How’s it going?”  
  
“Not nearly as well as you think.”   
  
Will gags. “Really don’t need to be here for this.”   
  
And Emma isn’t sure why it feels like another sign — or maybe an admission she wasn’t entirely expecting, but the words feel as if they filter into the space between her ribs and wrap around her irregularly beating heart and while she’s not much into miracles, she’s got to believe one occurs when her hair stays normal. 

“So,” Ruby says pointedly, “saw that client of yours was back one more time, Jones.”

Any sense of magic disappears. Into the void that’s abruptly appeared in the center of Emma, a growing sense of dread she doesn’t completely understand. 

Killian runs his fingers through his hair. Still no stolen bills.   
  
“Was she really?”

“Yuh huh. From what—” Ruby waves her phone. “—Graham said, she showed up in a huff, wanting to see Regina and—”  
  
“—She did see Regina,” Emma finishes. Every pair of eyes in that living room turn towards her. “After I nearly ran her over on my way out. That was weeks ago, though. But, uh...she didn’t seem super psyched to be there. Regina definitely knew her.”   
  
Seriously, they would all be horrendous spies. Whatever expression David’s face morphs into does nothing to help Emma understand what he’s trying to tell her, or why Ruby was texting Graham, but she’s got her suspicions about the last one and the buzzing between her ears almost makes it hard to hear Killian. 

“She was super specific,” he says, “wanted all these things for a job, but didn’t want to actually work at any of the jobs I could find. Said temping was below her.”  
  
“Jeez,” Belle mutters. “A delight.”   
  
“One way to put it, for sure. Like Swan said though, that was weeks ago, though. Right when I started.”

Something isn’t adding up. Math’s far from Emma’s favorite subject, but she’s always been fairly good at picking up on lies and deceptions and there is something wrong about Zelena whatever-her-last-name is. 

“Why didn’t you ever say anything about that?” Emma asks, 

Killian grits his teeth. “We weren’t exactly friends at that point. And I already told you I’d been trying to show off when I first got there.”  
  
“He’s a very sore loser, in case you haven’t noticed,” Belle adds. 

“I didn’t think I was losing, just—is wanting to do a good job a crime?”  
  
“Not on its own,” David answers, “although maybe when it comes with other caveats.”

Ruby’s next _make out_ cough is her worst one yet. The tips of Killian’s ears go pink. 

“Well,” Mary Margaret says, clearly trying to get the conversation away from interfering friends and less-than-pleased customers and back towards cheating at board games, “what should we play next?”

Emma destroys the lot of them at Settlers of Catan. And she only has to steal, like, three resource cards. 

* * *

Walking her home is Killian’s idea. 

Emma doesn’t put up much of a fight, but she’d like the record to take note as it were. This was not part of her plan. Neither was getting his jacket. 

But at some point in the middle of Washington Square Park, the wind had started to howl and the leaves had started to swirl around their feet and before she knew it there was leather hanging from her shoulders. Smelling suspiciously like saltwater.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Emma mumbles, even as she tugs the lapels closer. Warmth floods her, as if the jacket’s made of fire, which is only passably insane, but her magic is on overdrive and there’s just enough moonlight to see the way shadows dance across Killian’s face and—

“Well, this is the wooing portion of the evening,” he says, “so it felt timely.”  
  
“There’s a wooing portion?”   
  
“Disappointing that wasn’t more obvious. You did call it a date.”   
  
“You called it a date,” Emma amends, “and a group one, really. Which I never thought counted.”

Slowing down is also not part of her plan. Still, her feet drag and her fingers flicker at her side, waiting for a moment she isn’t sure will arrive because the moment also involves hand holding and she’s standing on Killian’s left side. 

“What’s the best date you’ve ever been on?”  
  
Stopping entirely is probably wrong. It’s closing in on midnight, and Emma’s had her fair share of wine, which might also explain the fluttering fingers. That’s an excuse. She knows why it’s happening and she knows what she wants and—

“I don’t know that I have one, really,” she admits. “Maybe once. I, um—well, the guy I’d been...dating’s not really the right term. That’s not important. Just that we broke into this closed carnival. Brought hot chocolate with us, and turned on some of the lights so we could sit on the swing ride. Talked for hours.”  
  
“Doesn’t sound that bad.”   
  
Emma hums noncommittally. She doesn’t mention the rest — how the lights hadn’t been part of Neal’s plan at all, just a happy accident that was actually a flip of her wrist and burst of power and she could have gotten the ride to work too, but Emma didn’t want to freak him out. 

That would come later, anyway. 

“What about you?” Emma counters. “Best date ever?”  
  
“Haven’t been many, if I’m being honest. But, uh—there was one night on the water, a very cheap bottle of champagne, more stars than I knew ever existed in the sky. That might have been the best.”   
  
“What happened to the date’e?”   
  
“She died,” Killian replies, a distinct lack of emotion in the words. "Car accident and,” his eyes drop to his arm, “everything sort of went to shit after that.”   
  
“I’m so sorry.”   
  
Scoffing, his inhale is sharp enough to almost be aggressive. “Nothing to apologize for. How’d you meet Mary Margaret, then?”

Emma considers her options. There’s the usual: lie. Completely and utterly, come up with anything except what actually happened and what actually happened was Mary Margaret saw Emma levitating hot dogs off a street cart on a Sunday in December and almost immediately decided to make sure nothing like that happened ever again. But there’s also another option: the half-lie. The hints of truth mixed in with caveats that won’t make Killian run, and Emma’s not sure what she’ll do if he runs. 

From her, specifically. 

She opts for choice number two. And Emma tells him. 

How she trusted Neal, believed he loved her and wanted a future together. Only she omits the part where he realized she was a witch, probably because she told him, and started formulating his escape plan. Which then led to Emma getting arrested for one of his get-rich schemes. She mentions that part. She doesn’t talk about how the magic that usually roars in her during times of emotional upheaval all but disappeared as soon as the cuffs clicked around her wrist, doused out by disappointment and betrayal. 

She recounts Mary Margaret’s mother-hen tendencies, a relationship borne of happenstance that led to a ramshackle family and a sense of belonging and—

“Saturday game nights,” Killian smiles.   
  
“Sometimes we play Mario Party and it’s way better than you cheating at Monopoly.”   
  
“Certainly sounding like you’re obsessed with my ability to cheat, Swan.”   
  
“How’d you do it?”   
  
Another head shake. A smile that threatens to brand itself on her goddamn soul, and that’s so melodramatic really the only option Emma has at that point is to press up on her toes, grab the front of Killian’s shirt and kiss him until it’s all either one of them can think about. 

Half a dozen Monopoly bills flutter to the ground. 

Emma has every intention of exclaiming. Of pointing out the lie, as charming as it might be. She really does. Except even the idea of pulling her mouth away from Kilian’s seems like the dumbest thing she could conceivably do, and she’s not an idiot. 

So. 

With one hand curled around the back of his neck, Emma’s fingers push into the tuft of hair at the base of Killian’s head. It gets her a much-appreciated groan, his tongue tracing her lips until she opens her mouth and then his tongue does something else, that might be more impressive magic than whatever they’re capable of. Individually, or otherwise. 

He tilts his head. Changes the angle and deepens the kiss, pulling Emma flush against his chest until their hips bump and she’s the one groaning and possibly even gasping and she wonders if it’s possible for the Earth to fly off its axis. 

Feels that way. 

Breaking apart only leads to them coming back together even faster, neither one of them all that interested in personal space. Killian’s arm circles her waist, fingers inching up her spine as he tries to find some room between the variety of fabric she’s wearing and Emma gasps when he reaches skin.   
  
“Going to do absolutely horrible things to my ego,” Killian murmurs, and it’s all Emma can do to hum in what she hopes sounds like approval. 

“You’ll have to give those bills back.”  
  
“I think they flew away. Guess Ill just have to buy replacement ones, and deliver them in person at the next game night.”   
  
Magic threatens to knock the air from Emma’s lungs. It’ll have to go up against Killian’s ability to kiss, and he’s very good at kissing. Her, specifically. 

“Who won the bet, do you think?” Emma asks, and they’re apparently just communicating in sounds now. “They, uh—apparently there was a kissing pool.”  
  
“Oh, I did.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“I did,” Killian says again, dropping his mouth to drag kisses along the side of Emma’s neck. “Under a false name, naturally. But I had by Sunday and—”   
  
“—What time is it? Also do you honestly believe people didn’t realize it was you? You have very memorable handwriting.”   
  
“I’m sorry, what?”

Bending back isn’t wholly comfortable, but it’s worth it for the slight pinch between Killian’s eyebrows. “You make these little swoops with your letters, it’s very fancy. People totally knew. Also I think it’s Sunday now, so you might have lost whatever loot you were going to get.”  
  
“Did I, though?”   
  
“Not if I’m the loot in this situation,” Emma laughs. _Laughs_. Loud and free and so ridiculously genuine it might be the first time she’s ever laughed like that.

Killian kisses the bridge of her nose. “Never.”

* * *

Leaving a trail of clothes from Emma’s door to her shoebox-sized bedroom is absolutely a cliché, but it’s also a cliché that ends with a naked Killian in her bed, so that’s a pretty acceptable victory as far as she’s concerned. 

The whole thing is fast and slow, good and even better, which is a nice change of pace for Emma really. She refuses to spend long on that particularly depressing thought. 

Particularly when Killian’s head falls back onto one of her pillows and the length of his neck makes for a very appealing kissing surface, and he lets that happen for all of thirty-two seconds before he’s flipping Emma and crowding into her space, tracing a path down her body with his mouth that ends with—

Fireworks. Or an explosion. Either one is also pretty cliché and even more wonderful, and Emma doesn’t wake up once after she falls asleep. 

* * *

“Ok,” Emma says, “so lemme get this straight, sometimes you turn into a cricket and—” She tries not to grimace. “Help people follow their conscience.”

Archie nods, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “That’s exactly it. Which is why I don’t think I can do telemarketer work.”  
  
“Understandable, I guess. Lots of lying in those kinds of things. And I—well, don’t need you to turn into some kind of immoral pill pusher.”   
  
“I’d rather we didn’t, if that’s at all possible.”   
  
“Let’s see what we can do, then.”

Two hours and what feels like several thousand searches later, Emma’s fairly confident they’ve found Archie Hopper the ideal job doing temp work in one of the psychologist offices on Madison Avenue. “It’s not perfect,” Emma says, not sure why she feels like she has to explain her rationale, “but it’s a step in the right direction and it could lead to a more permanent spot.”  
  
“I’m sure it will. Thank you.”  
  
“Ah, that’s just my job, it’s—”   
  
“—You’re very good at your job,” Archie interrupts, and that can’t be morally correct. Emma takes the compliment anyway. “Is there something you want to talk about, though?”

Lifting her eyebrows, the telltale hint of guilt that lingers in the back of her throat is uncomfortable. “Getting in some extra practice before you start at the office, huh?” Archie’s expression doesn’t change. Not judgmental. Not expectant. Patient. Like he knows. Or can read Emma’s mind. Magic is so overrated, honestly. “I, uh—maybe not to you specifically. Shit is that super offensive?”  
  
“No. Who do you want to talk to?”   
  
“The guy three offices away.”   
  
“Because he—”   
  
“—I don’t know, we haven’t really gotten that far. He’s…” Words fail Emma. Clump together in a ball of anxious emotion that doesn’t serve any purpose except to clog her windpipe. The problem is she wants to tell him. Desperately, in fact. Wants to lay all her metaphorical cards on the table, because two weeks after waking up to a decidedly shirtless Killian whose left arm seemed glued to her waist, Emma can’t stop thinking about that morning or the potential for future mornings and there have been more mornings and she might want indefinite mornings and really she’s just a complete disaster. 

“Does he not know what you’re capable of?”

Emma narrows her eyes. “Are you a mind reader too?”  
  
“Not quite, more empathetic. So, let’s have your worst.”

“I think—do you think it’s possible for two people to have any sort of future together when they’re not being totally upfront with each other?”  
  
“For a time,” Archie concedes. “But you’re always looking over your shoulder, aren’t you? Waiting for the other shoe, and eventually the truth will have out. Might as well be in control of it when you can.”   
  
“Kind of depressing.”

He clicks his tongue. “Proactive.”

In the last few weeks, Emma’s come to realize she’s ridiculously attuned to everything Killian does. Part of her wonders if it’s a magic thing, but he doesn’t have magic and she’s not the kind of person Archie thinks she should be. Asking Regina has only crossed her mind a few times. 

She ignores them every time. 

Including right now, with Killian leaning against her door frame. Crossed arms stretch the limits of his shirt’s fabric, the same one that was sitting in one of Emma’s drawers that morning. He’s got a drawer at her apartment. 

She’s got like—four drawers. Sharing them is a big step. 

“Hey love,” Killian says, nodding in Archie’s direction. “When you’ve got a couple minutes you think you could help brainstorm before my three o’clock gets here? Has been out of the country for years, no GED, but claims a vast knowledge of the candy industry.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll be right there.”

Winking is really one of his lesser talents. 

“So,” Archie says eventually, as Emma hands him a card with all the details for his first day, “that’s three offices away. Magic?”  
  
“Nope.”   
  
“Unexpected.”   
  
“Very.”   
  
Standing up, the chair squeaks when Archie moves. “Tell him. Soon as you can. Otherwise what’s the point?”

Emma isn’t sure there is one. Or how good advice from a part-time cricket can be. 

* * *

**What’s the most ridiculous client you’ve ever gotten?**

_Are you texting me while you’re working?_   
**  
Yes, and that’s not an answer.**

**Because whatever your answer is, I’m fairly positive I just beat it.**   
_  
Competitive weirdo. _

**Swan.**

_Uhhhhhh I once got a guy who was narcoleptic. Fell asleep while we were talking, and that made people not want to hire him._

Emma leaves out the part where the guy in question was also cursed. It’s not important. Or so she’ll rationalize for the rest of the afternoon. 

She got him a job working retail at a Sleep-More Mattress store, anyway. 

**Nope, I still win.**

_No one is competing, babe_. 

Staring at her phone, Emma’s eyes linger on the words she hasn’t said out loud, but typed almost too easily and the three dots pop up on her screen immediately. 

**I am. Only job history is in combat. Says she’s good with a sword and capable of defending a variety of important people. So, I’m now open to suggestions as to her future employment options.**

_Now it’s starting to sound like you want me to do your job._

And, Emma thinks, finding a job for what legitimately sounds like some sort of knight protector might be out of the scope of Killian’s capabilities. 

**Concede that I’ve won, and then I’ll even let you help me.**

_Wow. With an offer like that…_

Mulan does actually have more talents than her self-proclaimed skills with a sword. Her sense of direction is unparalleled, and her ability to navigate is even better and she almost sounds excited at the prospect of driving an Uber until Emma can come up with some other idea. 

And losing a competition she didn’t agree to isn’t really so bad. 

Not when Killian’s arm hovers above Emma’s head, her back pressed against his office door and any desire to mumble even more trash talk gets lost in the exact way he kisses her. 

* * *

He keeps staying over. Nights spent curled on the couch watching every cooking competition they can find on Hulu, and the general consensus finds that Guy’s Grocery Games is the kind of positive chaos they can both get behind. 

Chopped might be overrated. 

Beat Bobby Flay is the worst. Hands down. 

They pick out recipes to try, and sometimes Emma flutters her fingers and things appear in her cabinet that weren’t there before, but she’s totally rationalized that as a reasonable and very little white lie and she forgets all about it when Killian flicks mashed potatoes at her left cheek. 

Weekends find them wandering the city, hands clasped together and he’s always careful to slide the cinnamon container across the counter of whatever coffee place they inevitably stop at. Crisp wind doesn’t do much to stifle the small inferno constantly blazing in the middle of Emma’s chest, and she doesn’t wear his jacket again, but the small pile of his shirts in her drawer grows and they really are nice to sleep in. 

Comfortable, she says. 

Killian beams. Every single time. And kisses that one spot underneath her ear. 

Life goes on and something starts, and builds, and Emma forgets almost entirely about how often Regina holes herself up in her office with her phone pressed against her ear. Instead, she and Killian talk about clients and help each other with job ideas and somewhere in the realm of one forty-two on the morning of Halloween, Emma realizes with unflagging and absolute certainty that she’s in love. 

With the guy whose arm is still curled around her waist. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, listen, the world's a disaster. Today is going to be very stressful. So I hope this mess of exceptionally silly words was able to distract from that for a few minutes and if you need to vent, or shout into the void, or want to discuss all the reasons why Guy Fieri is the best personality on Food Network, I am here. Or I can send you pictures of my cats. Whatever works. 
> 
> You're all wonderful. We'll get through this with fictional characters who can't help but make out constantly. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	3. Chapter 3

“Are you good?”  
  
Tilting her head up to meet Killian’s vaguely crinkled forehead and passably confused expression, Emma almost regrets the question she didn’t plan on asking. That’s the problem with him. And them, at least in the abstract sense. 

Words tumble out of her without much thought to their meaning or collective, if not slightly metaphorical, weight. Defenses she’s spent a lifetime cultivating feel as if they’ve crumbled at her feet, which is impressive since she’s laying down, but the metaphor still checks out and Emma keeps asking questions. 

Without being wholly afraid of the answers she’ll get. 

“Be more specific,” Killian murmurs, and her heart does something stupid. Skips a beat. Sparks her magic. Threatens to leave her glowing in the tangle of sheets she’s absolutely stolen in the middle of the night. 

“Just—I mean with everything.”  
  
Nosing at her cheek, Emma can practically hear Killian’s smile. “‘Fraid that’s not any more specific, my love. But if we’re going to speak in the abstract before coffee—”   
  
“—Oh, we should make coffee.”   
  
He kisses her cheek, that time. “Then I am exceptionally good.”   
  
“Pretty vast adverb.”   
  
“Well, you asked a very broad question. But I stand by my answer, particularly when you’re not wearing any clothing. Why, am I giving off not-good vibes?”   
  
“Maybe lame ones if you keep using the word vibe in actual conversation. I just—I don’t know, wanted to make sure, I guess. Working for Mills isn’t exactly the height of luxury and it can be a weird place, and I...we never really looked at apartments for you, because we can do that if you want to, but—”   
  
Stumbling over the words, Emma wishes her hands were free. She’d like to wave them around. Use them as a distraction to whatever has settled on her face and in the pit of her stomach, and this wasn’t really the plan. Granted, the plan occurred while she was overly exhausted and reeling a bit from rather large emotional realizations, but telling him the truth about absolutely everything is suddenly a bit more daunting in the light of day. 

And they haven’t even had coffee yet. 

Killian’s hand moves. Faster than Emma’s entirely ready for, his fingers brush a strand of wayward hair away from her eyes and then he’s kissing the bridge of her nose and pulling her against his chest and—

“This was not my plan. In some great expectation for my life, I’m not sure I could have ever imagined this is what it’d be like. But,” Killian adds, as soon as Emma’s magic shifts into something far closer to dread, “if all of this ended with your freakishly cold feet waking me up every morning, then I can’t be very upset about it.”

Swooning pre-coffee can’t be advisable. Emma’s heart doesn’t care. It flips and flops and does that possible explosion thing again, and she’s a little concerned the force of her smile will have adverse effects on the paint in her bedroom. 

“You don’t think Mills is weird?”  
  
“Do you?”   
  
Emma shakes her head. “Nah, no questions for questions. This is—”   
  
“—An inquiry?” Her shoulders slump. Under the blankets, and she’s really got a shit ton of blankets. “I don’t know, Swan. Mills is...a place, a job. One where you work, and that’s mostly why I’m interested in continuing to work there. Should I not be thinking that?”   
  
The last few words come with a bit of understandable concern and maybe a hint of frustration, and she should have said something earlier. 

It’s very frustrating to realize how much smarter the part-time cricket is than Emma.

She hopes he’s enjoying his job, too. 

“My feet aren’t really that cold.”

Killian scoffs. “I promise, they are like little ice cubes attached to your legs.”  
  
“Lucky you’re here to provide external heat, then.” 

Burrowing her face closer to the crook of his neck, Emma gives herself a moment to relish in that warmth, like he’s some sort of personal sun or a battery or another bit of science she doesn’t understand and David always likes to say that science is just explained magic. Emma wonders if it works the other way, too. 

Magic is something that simply hasn’t been explained yet. No rational reasoning, or anything except the kind of gut feeling that can change everything. 

“I am,” Killian says, and it probably isn’t meant to sound like a promise. “Are you good?”  
  
Dots of light appear behind Emma’s eyelids every time she blinks, trying to come up with an answer that won’t send him running and she doesn’t know what she’ll do if he runs. Energy prickles at the tips of her fingers, curling around either one of her wrists and lingering in the slight bend of her left elbow because at some point her left palm has flattened itself against Killian’s stomach. “Mills can be kind of weird,” Emma mutters, trying to pick her words more carefully now. “And that’s...there’s a reason for that, and a reason I started working there and—”   
  
A phone starts vibrating. 

Loudly enough that it also immediately falls from the nightstand it was charging on, and keeps buzzing around on the floor. Killian sighs. 

“Hold that thought.”

Emma wishes she could. But her hands are already back underneath the blankets, and she’s all too aware of how bright they’ve gone in the last few seconds and the state of Killian’s shoulders make it obvious he’s not all that pleased with whatever he’s being told.   
  
“Yeah, yeah, I can—I mean, it’s like twenty blocks the wrong way, but—God, yes, Scarlet. I can come back for a few minutes.”

He doesn’t bother to plug the phone back in, and for like a solid half second Emma gets distracted by the lack of clothes before her eyes fly up and Killian’s sighing again and the weight in the pit of her stomach grows. 

“Coffee later?”  
  
Emma blinks. “Sure. Is everything ok?”   
  
“No idea, just that Scarlet said he had to talk to me and it couldn’t wait and—” Killian shrugs, fingers finding the back of his neck. “I probably won’t be that late, but if Regina asks—”   
  
“—I’ll tell her.”   
  
Something tugs at the back of her mind, a warning Emma can’t place, but she can sense a lie with almost startling accuracy and she knows Killian isn’t lying to her. She just can’t figure out why Will would lie to him. 

* * *

Halloween’s not her favorite day. 

People assume all magical and mythical creatures thrive on this one day of the year, but more often than not Emma finds that it’s just another busy day when those same magical and mythical creatures come out of the metaphorical woodwork in droves to get jobs. And sure, some of the rumors are true. There are certain times when the fabric between realms can be a bit more flimsy than usual. Both midnights, for example. Eleven-eleven’s another big one. So, teenage girls had that one right, at least. 

And yeah, ok, Halloween also means Regina bakes half a dozen apple pies for the whole office, but when the whole office is already overrun by inquiring applicants, Emma can’t find it in herself to be very excited for a dessert she only kind of likes. 

She’d never admit that to Regina. 

Self-preservation instincts, and all that. 

Plus, days like this are always cold. Fraught with that certain nip in the air, and leaves that crunch under Emma’s boots. Only to also get stuck to the bottom of Emma’s boots, and she has to twist her wrist to get rid of her leaf-based trail on her way to her paperwork-covered desk. 

The same one David’s leaning against. 

“You tell him yet?”

She missed one leaf. Figures. Emma never even went trick-or-treating as a kid. Halloween’s a sham. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Sure you don’t. It’s dumb that you haven’t yet.”   
  
“Voice your opinion a little louder, please.”   
  
“Nothing is going to happen,” David says, but Emma barely hears over the sound of sudden and complete disagreement that scratches its way from the depths of her soul. Maybe Halloween makes her a little maudlin, actually. She can’t believe she didn’t get to tell him. “It hasn’t yet.”   
  
“Why are you jinxing things like that?”   
  
“There is no such thing as jinx, and c’mon, if you guys can get through today with a hundred magically unemployed people, then sky’s the limit.”   
  
“Not even clever.”   
  
David shakes his head. “You’re impressed and swayed, I know it. Plus it’s not like you’re a bad witch or anything.”   
  
“I’m sorry, a bad witch?”   
  
“Yeah, you know. None of your intentions, even when lying to the guy you’re stupid into—”   
  
“—Opinions keep coming fast and furious, don’t they?”   
  
“Because he’s right,” Ruby calls, twisting around desks to involve herself in a conversation Emma doesn’t want to participate in anymore. “You really didn’t tell him yet? That’s nuts. And you’re a good person, Em. With a very good looking face. Who wouldn’t want to make out with that? Ad nauseum.”   
  
“I’m going to be honest, using a word that sounds like nauseous isn’t helping your case much,” Emma says. “And I’m going to tell him. I am, just—things got crazy this morning.”   
  
Ruby howls. With laughter. Drawing more than a few curious stares, and rather pointed glare from Regina’s direction. David pales noticeably. “Did they?” Ruby presses. “How crazy are we talking and was it also vaguely acrobatic, because I feel like Jones could move if he had to, but that’s strictly theorizing on my part, so—”   
  
Sentences without end are quickly becoming Emma’s least favorite thing. Only slightly edging out ringing phones. The one on her desk lights up, which doesn’t happen very often, but she can’t imagine the light is supposed to be green. 

David’s talking. She’s dimly aware of it — the soft hum that sounds more like Charlie Brown’s teacher than any of the human characteristics Emma is certain they both have, and that’s another quasi-Halloween reference. Rocks appear to have landed rather forcefully in her stomach, and that’s what she gets for optimism. 

“Swan,” Killian breathes, as soon as she pulls the phone to her ear. “Swan, Emma listen to me, you can’t—”  
  
Seriously, the lack of sentence structure is becoming intolerable. Killian grunts, the sound turning into a gasp almost immediately and a few shouted _no, no, no leave them alone_ and Emma doesn’t remember standing. 

Only that she’s knocked her chair over in the process. 

“Is this Ms. Swan?” a new voice Emma almost recognizes asks. “Because it seems I’ve got something of yours, while you have something I’m particularly interested in. Let’s make a little exchange, shall we?”

It’s disappointing that her mouth goes dry. Emma assumes that’s because she’s all but panting, bent awkwardly over her desk while her eyes scan the room for something or someone and—it clicks. The voice. 

“Zelena. This is Zelena, isn't it?”  
  
Both David and Ruby make matching noises of disbelief, but the buzzing is back and Regina is moving and the line’s gone dead anyway. “She’s not supposed to be here,” Regina says with enough calm that it grates on every single one of Emma’s already-fraying nerves, “magical control sent her back to Oz.”   
  
Emma can’t cope with this. Any of it. All she wanted was to drink coffee with her decidedly human and very normal, if not ridiculously attractive boyfriend and they’ve never actually used relationship qualifiers. 

That’s disappointing. 

“Right, right, yeah, ok, of course” Emma mumbles, and she doesn’t bother to fix her chair. “Happy fucking Halloween, I guess.”

* * *

It takes her all of five minutes and one person dressed in costume to realize that running is absolutely and completely pointless. 

Emma’s a goddamn witch.

And it’s raining. 

Drops slide down her temples, drip down the back of her neck and work under her jacket because she never even got the chance to take her jacket off. Which is something of an exceptionally small miracle now, but she’s already cold and she’s always so fucking cold and—

He called her Emma. 

He called her—

“My love,” she whispers, entirely to herself and that part isn’t really true. Shadows hover just outside the edge of her vision, what Emma knows are her friends waiting for instructions or a plan, and she’s got to come up with a plan and she doesn’t know where Belle and Will live. 

She doesn’t have to. 

Reaching her hand back, Emma’s fingers lace through Regina’s, and her soft instruction of “all instinctual,” doesn’t get lost in the hum of the city or the bustle of a holiday that requires masks and chocolate-based gluttony. It takes root. In Emma’s mind, and those same pieces of her soul, finds the tiny bits of space between her stomach rocks and spreads out from there. 

Warming her from the inside out. 

She closes her eyes. 

* * *

“What the fucking fuck?” Will shouts, Emma’s feet slamming into hardwood floor that was probably highlighted in this apartment listing. Eyes bugging, he’s plastered to the wall opposite her, and Emma’s pleasantly surprised to find he’s not gagged, but she also kind of figures it’s because Belle is and there’s something inherently villainous about allowing the love interest to make noise while their partner is being tortured. 

By a woman wearing a pointed witch’s hat.  
  
“Kind of cliché, isn’t it?” Ruby muses, and Emma’s not surprised they’ve started their rescue mission with sarcasm. She also can’t respond. Her eyes are too busy trying to take in the scene. 

Stacks of books litter the floor, half the living room furniture on its side as if it’s been knocked over in a fit of inevitably-magical rage, and Belle doesn’t look as scared as annoyed that she’s been bound in one of the few upright chairs. Emma’s heart stutters. Catching her breath is impossible, head on a swivel as she tries to find—

“Killian,” she exhales, and he’s not gagged either. No visible restraints keep him a few feet away from Will, but Emma can feel the magic rippling off him and it smells strongly of bitter lemons. Or expired key lime pie. 

Neither of those things are inherently Halloween, or all that magical. But then Zelena’s turning slowly and the green splotches on her face ensure any attempts at passably funny metaphors or desperate attempts to maintain her sense of reality disappear. 

“Huh,” David says, “that’s new, actually. We ever see anyone change color before?”

Regina clicks her tongue. “She’s not changing color. She’s giving in.”  
  
“To what, exactly?”   
  
“Jealousy. Isn’t that right, Zelena? Been the crux of the problem forever, hasn’t it?”

Emma’s head is spinning. She’s not moving. “Wait, wait, what the fuck is going on?” One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up, amusement in his gaze and that can’t possibly be right. “You are stuck to the wall, idiot!’  
  
“Oh, Swan, you do know how to flatter a man.”   
  
“What is happening?”   
  
He can’t shrug, but Emma knows he tries and that should not be as charming as it is. Mary Margaret squeezes her hand. The one that’s almost neon. “Turns out Scarlet didn’t actually want to talk to me this morning. We definitely could have had coffee.”   
  
“Is that a euphemism for—” Ruby starts, only to snap her jaw closed when Regina gapes at her. Emma’s starting to lose feeling in her fingers. 

And she sees the exact moment any sense of teasing and entirely false bravado leaves Killian. Lips going thin, his shoulders still don’t move, but Emma swears his fear reverberates through her and that’s not the emotion she was interested in sharing that morning. “You’ve got to get out of here, love. Now, it’s—”  
  
Zelena’s hand moves so quickly, it’s not much more than a passably-green blur. Nothing else comes out of Killian’s mouth. His jaw moves, working against a shield none of them can see, and Emma’s stomach is somewhere in the vicinity of her throat. 

Even with all those rocks. 

“How did you get back here?” Regina asks, stepping towards the front of their ragtag group. Fire bursts from her hands, flames that flicker up her forearms and draw another grunt out of Will. Whether it’s surprise or just the generic sound of being impressed, Emma’s not sure. 

Bits of green cling to the end of Zelena’s mouth when she smiles. “Shall I start at the beginning, then?”  
  
“God yes, please,” Emma sighs. 

Zelena doesn’t take her hat off. Really, she’s almost making it work for her. As far as costumes go, this one’s kind of basic, but there’s no cape or a broomstick and Emma’s never met a witch who was interested in flying a broom anywhere. 

“Wanted to stay conspicuous, you understand,” Zelena says, “Draw too much attention to myself and—ah, well, that’s not what’s important now.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Why you, Emma Swan. Obviously.”   
  
“This isn’t the beginning,” David mumbles, and both Emma and Regina shift before Zelena can so much as lift her chin. One of the windows on a different wall flies open, half a dozen pigeons descending on the living room and nipping at the ends of Zelena’s hair. They pull on the sides of her dress and peck at the green spots that are growing on her cheeks. 

Whistling, Mary Margaret jerks her head and the pigeons fly away, looking a little like an avian synchronized swimming team. “Leave him alone.”

“Shit,” Ruby says, “that was impressive and aggressive. Ignore the rhyme.”

Emma tilts her head. “Slant rhyme, right? Can’t rhyme matching sounds.”  
  
Someone makes a noise — it comes from the general direction of Killian and Will, but it can’t be Killian and Emma wants it to be him anyway. Zelena doesn’t look very impressed with any of them. That’s fair, it’s probably frustrating to have your monologue interrupted so often. 

“If you don’t mind,” she sneers, Emma waving her free hand like she’s capable of giving the bad guy permission to keep talking. “It had been quite some time since I’d been in this realm, and plenty of things had changed. More magic, a certain kind of power that hung in the air. Energy that could change the course of everything, strong enough that it could probably rewrite time itself if it wanted to. And I want it to.”  
  
“To what?”   
  
“Were you not listening? Rewrite time.”

Breathing out of her mouth is not attractive. It’s loud and makes Emma’s tongue feel larger than it actually is, especially when she has to keep using it to lick her lips. “That’s—that’s insane. You’re insane. You didn’t just want to get a normal job? I mean...you were at Mills. I saw you.”  
  
“Power of the Universe at my fingertips and you think I’d be satisfied with a normal job? No wonder you have no idea what you are. Which,” Zelena glances meaningfully at Killian, “means you, Emma Swan, are the reason I’m here.”   
  
“Speak English!”   
  
Zelena huffs. “I am. What I felt when I returned to this realm? It was you, my dear. Your power, your magic, your ability. And, yes, I could have given into the hum-drum existence of this place and the structure of Mills Personnel, but where exactly is the fun in that?”

Emma hopes she’s not expected to answer. She doesn’t have one. It’s entirely possible she’s going to snap several of Mary Margaret’s fingers in half. 

“Anyway,” Zelena continues, “locating that power wasn’t easy, but Regina Mills’ ability to make things happen is legendary. Finding a person’s niche, that’s her greatest talent. And so I did come to Mills, looking for a position that would help me get the rest of the requirements.”

Ruby keeps shaking her head. Emma can’t seem to move. Or breathe. Her eyes keep darting back towards Killian, trying to make sure he’s breathing or reacting in a way that doesn’t threaten to make her cry. Nothing. 

He’s plastered to a wall with magic, of course not. 

“You see, a time spell is one of the more complex out there. Need all sorts of things in addition to the kind of magic that can fuel it. Which is what I wanted when I got to Mills. Hoped I could get placed in a hospital or something of the sort.”

On the increasingly small scale of things that surprise Emma, that somehow makes the cut. “You need, like, an IV drip or something?”  
  
“A baby,” Zelena replies easily, and Belle whimpers against the gag. “Pure of spirit, you understand. Other things too. Courage, wisdom, maybe a heart if I could get lucky—”   
  
“—An actual heart?” Will balks. “Spend a lot of time in Wonderland, did ya?”   
  
“I mean, she could probably get the heart in the hospital too if she wasn’t picky about her choices,” Ruby reasons, and this whole thing is absurd. Maybe that’s the theme for Halloween as a whole, though. 

More of Zelena’s face is green. 

“I had hoped I’d get someone competent who could help me. Or even the source of the power. Naturally,” she jerks her head in Killian’s direction, “I ended up with this sot. Who suggested working at a clinic or agreeing to something called an orderly position. Well, I knew he wouldn’t help me, but I did get something out of it. I knew you were there, Emma. And—” Zelena’s eyes rove towards Belle, and the hands collapsed over the front of her stomach. Realization crashes over Emma in waves, the rocks disappearing only to be replaced with a bone-deep chill that douses any bit of light in her. “So I do have a few options for you all now.”  
  
“What are you trying to fix?”   
  
“Hmm?”   
  
“Fix,” Emma repeats, “or change, I guess. I mean—that’s not how life works.”   
  
Zelena hums in what can only be passing interest and something almost like an agreement. “Seems unnecessary to tell you my whole plan, but when it works it won’t make much of a difference. I want to get rid of the girl. That nasty little thing that fell in Oz and ruined everything. Robbed me of my chance to prove myself, claimed there had to be good witches and bad witches and you’re absolutely right, Ms. Swan. That’s not how life works. Nothing is quite so cut and dry as all that.”

Words hang off the tip of her disgustingly dry tongue. Want to be said and proclaimed, and for all the mistakes Emma has made — good and bad, right and wrong, trusting and the opposite, she’s happy to find she’s not particularly interested in changing them. 

Not if she ends up here. 

Well, maybe not here—with her boyfriend, they’ll get to that eventually, magically silenced and Belle doing her best to glare daggers at the half-green witch who commandeered her living room, and Ruby’s teeth are definitely getting longer. But maybe here-adjacent. With people who care about her, who followed her without question or thought and the guy who is still somehow staring at Emma like he’s got every intention of keeping her feet warm. 

Ad nauseum. 

“I’m not really interested in anything you need.”

Disappointment flashes across Zelena’s face, only to immediately morph into something much closer to fury. “Hero types, always so sanctimonious. That’s why I said several options. It’s one now, but—” Flicking her wrist, Killian slides down the wall in what Emma knows isn’t actually slow motion. Still, the amount of time it takes for his knees to crash to the ground seems to last forever and Zelena doesn’t try to stop Emma from rushing forward. 

Eventually, she’ll realize why. 

“Regina discovered what I was trying to do,” Zelena explains, “my fault. Kept coming back to Mills, demanding better placement and as much as it pains me to admit she’s smart...well, she sent me back to Oz.”  
  
“So how are you here?” Mary Margaret demands.

Emma doesn’t need that answer, either. Halloween is a bullshit, overrated holiday. Pulling Killian close to her, he’s far too limp and impossibly silent, and Emma barely spends a moment thinking about either of those things before she’s kissing anywhere she can reach, mumbling apologies and half-explanations into his skin and—

“Ah, I’d be careful if I were you,” Zelena says, a soft lilt to her voice that rattles down Emma’s spine. “See, your option is to give me your magic, Ms. Swan. If you won’t do it willingly, I’ll take it by force.”  
  
“I don’t—” 

Movement catches Emma’s attention, the soft flutter of fingers across her back and she has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. At first. All it takes is a few seconds, and that’s probably another sign. She hopes so. Tracing letters on her jacket, Killian’s eyes flutter shut like he’s exhausted and determined not to sleep and—  
  
“No,” Emma exhales, but Zelena’s smile looks victorious. It’s too late. They’re too late. And there’s nothing they can do to change that. 

Slumping against her, Killian’s eyes don’t open again. His breathing evens out, and Emma supposes that’s something of a very twisted victory because he isn’t dead, but he’s even more obviously sleeping and sleeping curses are notoriously hard to break.

“Especially when they so often require a kiss,” Zelena grins. “True Love, and all that. So let me ask, Ms. Swan. Do you think what you and the plebe have is True Love and, more importantly, will you be willing to sacrifice your magic for it? Because the only way he’s waking up is with a kiss and the next time you kiss him, you’ll lose your magic.”

* * *

To suggest that it kind of all goes to shit after that is something of an understatement. 

Light pours out of Emma, unsteady legs under her even as she juts her chin out. To her credit Zelena doesn’t back down. She stands there and she turns a bit more green, and magic is so goddamn weird. Emma’s also never been in a magic fight before. 

Spending so long hiding that part of her — certain it was going to be the reason everyone left, the opportunity never really presented itself. Fighting for the sanctity of time itself and Killian’s consciousness seems as good a reason as any to flip the script, so to speak. 

Heat races through Emma, wind swirling at her ankles as frames clatter to the ground. Shards of glass fly on the manufactured breeze, Mary Margaret darting towards Belle and David sprinting towards Will, and it’s something of a confidence boost when they’re both able to pull them away from the battle. 

Although Emma can’t really believe she thought the word battle, even in her head. 

“Not exactly the magical dominance you were bragging about, huh?” Emma quips, twirling a finger in the air. Bands of light circle Zelena’s calves, twist up her legs and turn her answering laugh into a gasp that also does dangerous things to Emma’s ego. 

“I never—” Zelena grunts, twisting against bonds that don’t even flicker. “—You were the powerful one, I thought I made that blatantly obvious.”  
  
“I mean,” David shrugs. 

Ruby nods. “She did kind of, Em. That’s true.”  
  
“Whose side are you on?” Emma snaps, but the retreat back to absurd is almost comforting in a familiar, banter-filled sort of way. 

“Please,” Regina sighs. Her hands are on fire. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, and I know you claimed you didn’t have to tell Killian the truth before.”  
  
“Yeah, well, cat’s pretty much out of the bag on that front, don’t you think?”   
  
“Flew out on pigeon’s wings, I think.”

Laughter has no place in a moment when Zelena’s entire face has turned green, and her own fireballs are threatening at her palms, but Emma can’t help herself and maybe the dumbest thing she’s ever done was suggest Killian shouldn’t have worked at Mills. Or that she couldn’t be head over heels in love with him. 

That helps, honestly. 

“You’re not getting my magic,” Emma announces, all too sure she sounds as ridiculous as she feels. Heroic soliloquies are also overrated, it seems. “And you’re not getting Killian or—God, were we actually talking about Dorothy that whole time?”  
  
Zelena snarls. That must be the response. 

“Well, you’re not getting her either. Sneaking back here on Halloween was dumb. Trying any of this was ridiculous and threatening Killian was the worst of all your ideas. Because—” Emma takes a step forward. Nothing shakes. If anything her knees almost lock out, the hair falling over her shoulders noticeably brighter than usual and Zelena recoils. Seriously, her confidence is through the roof. “Magical job placement might be boring, and it might have a shit ton of paperwork, but it’s also a chance to help people and that’s...that’s the point, isn’t it? Finding that sense of belonging? Giving a person a chance. Being able to—”  
  
“—Fall in love,” Mary Margaret cries, scrunching her nose when Regina and Ruby shush her. “I mean…that’s what it is, isn’t it? Love’s not a weapon. It makes Emma glow.”   
  
And that makes Emma curse. “Maybe we phrase it differently?”

“Maybe we worry about language once we actually defeat the witch, huh?” Regina challenges, and that seems like a legitimate plan. 

Balls of fire fly through the air. Ricochet off Emma’s lights, and every window flies open as Mary Margaret calls upon not only pigeons but what look like several sparrows and a few nightingales if the sounds they’re making is any indication. Leaves swirl around the room, partially from the actual wind and also from whatever Emma is apparently capable of. 

A lot more than she thought, honestly. 

Warmth rises in her spine, sets her shoulders in a straight and determined line and she gives Will an appreciative smile when he pulls Killian out of the fray. Only to immediately jump back in, ducking and twisting and there’s a lot more cardio involved than she thought, but then a flash of magic nearly singes her ear and Emma’s thankful for her own agility.

She moves. Refuses to back down, ignoring the growing ache in her muscles and the weird popping thing her hip is doing. And Zelena starts to cower. In an especially villain-type of way.

Backing into the nearest wall, she stumbles over her feet as light tightens around her. It pins her arms to her side, curls around her ankles and guarantees she can’t run away when Emma stalks forward. 

With a smile on her face. 

* * *

Oz authorities appear at eleven-eleven, which seems to suggest it is somehow still morning and Emma cannot rationalize that at all. 

They thank Emma for containing the fugitive, nod towards Regina and well—that’s that. Leaving the rest of them in a slightly singed apartment with pillows that somehow haven’t burst, and what feels like a distinct lack of oxygen. 

“So,” Will drawls, “what do we do now?”  
  
He doesn’t have to look at Killian. The still-sleeping form is the far-more-attractive-than-an-elephant elephant in the room, draped across a couch that David had to lift on his own. One of his feet is hanging over the side.   
  
“True Love’s Kiss isn’t a real thing,” Emma whispers, but the words taste like ash on her tongue and Regina makes a very obnoxious noise. 

“Dumb, dumb, dumb.”  
  
“Do you think I’ll lose my magic?”   
  
“Do you actually care?”   
  
Shaking her head, Emma doesn’t bother saying the words. Not when she knows they’re so obviously painted on her face and sudden realization is almost as annoying as not ending sentences. She knows what he was tracing on her back. 

Maybe she is the idiot, actually. 

And for a moment, Emma’s mind falters. Remembers that _other_ moment, standing frozen as a different set of lights threatened to blind her and metal snapped around her wrists and she’d been so certain then. Never again. Nothing else would get through the defenses. No one else would know. No more mistakes. 

This isn’t a mistake. 

Careful to avoid the glass on the floor, Emma tiptoes forward and crouches next to Killian. She brushes her fingers over that scar on his cheek, the ends of lips that are somehow still tilted up into half a smirk and—

“God, just do it already,” Belle shouts. 

That’s that, again. 

Kissing at this angle isn’t particularly easy, and Emma’s knees aren’t particularly pleased with the amount of pressure she’s putting on them, but it does allow her to basically drape herself across Killian and that also makes it easier to get her hand under the hem of his shirt. And nothing else really happens. 

No sharp inhale. No tilt of his head. Absolutely no sign of his tongue, which Emma has come to find herself almost obsessed with in the last few months. She doesn’t care. Doesn’t allow herself to stop, not when there’s a flicker of hope and all that want simmering between her ribs, mixing with her magic and how ridiculously in love she is and it’s annoying that she’s the one who gasps. 

As soon as arms circle her waist. 

Emma can’t really tumble when she’s above him, but the edge of the couch digs into her thighs and Killian’s doing an admirable job of trying to get her parallel to the rest of his body. Her fingers find his hair when he arches up, his own hand roving the expanse of her back before his arm curls tightly around her like he’s trying to make sure she’s still there. Leaning into her palm against his chin, Killian’s lips drag across the back of Emma’s wrist, sparking another round of magic and even more glowing.  
  
“Oh shit,” Emma mumbles, not able to pull herself away from Killian. Because of his arm. And...other reasons. 

“Was that a response to me, or—”  
  
“—No, no, I just—well, there’s still magic. I’ve still got magic. And, uh, I’m a witch.”   
  
He laughs. Throws his head back and lets his body shake under her, which really isn’t helping Emma’s state of mind at all, but she’s admittedly preoccupied with the overall volume of the laugh and how wide his smile is. “Swan, Emma love, did you honestly think I didn’t know?”

She—

Has absolutely no idea what to do with that. 

Ruby might fall over. Regina’s eyes bug, Mary Margaret using David to stay upright, Belle covers her mouth with her hand, Will cackling loud enough for the both of them. 

“Did you,” Emma starts, but Belle and Will shake their heads and Killian’s tongue click is awfully put-upon for a guy who was just cursed. 

He taps on her jaw until she’s able to look at him. And his stupid blue eyes. “I could feel it, love. Also you have a tendency to...glow. Which I'm assuming is a compliment, for me. Or us. There's an us, right?" She nods. Can't do much else. "And you’re not very subtle. Extra cinnamon in the cabinets, moving the remote so I don’t have to look for it. Working at a job placement agency that helps the magically afflicted. Plus there was paperwork. Was Freddie really a gold statue at one point?”  
  
“Yeah, but they un-statue’ed him with water from Lake Nostos. Not True Love’s Kiss.”   
  
“So we won, then?”   
  
“Competitive weirdo.”   
  
“Absolutely,” Killian nods. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I figured you’d get around to it at some point and then you were talking today and—”   
  
“—We’re not such shitty friends that we’d demand Killian show up back here before nine,” Will reasons. “Plus, it’s been kind of nice to have a free couch.”

Killian gags. “Did I say congratulations yet?”  
  
“We were busy.”   
  
“Wait, wait,” Emma sputters, and she’s going to go into cardiac arrest. Or magic overload. “So this whole time. You knew.”   
  
“Well, not the whole time,” Killian objects. “Most of it though, yeah.”   
  
“But you’re still here.”   
  
“Where else did you expect me to go? Aside from your apartment now that we’ve defeated the wicked witch? I’m assuming we defeated the wicked witch.” Emma nods. “Well, then I’ll apologize for drawing you into that, too. She was half the reason I started to suspect anything, honestly. Told Regina about her and the last thing I expected when I got here was to see her, or to have her demand I get you here. I tried to avoid that.”   
  
More nodding. More aching muscles and poorly performing hearts, and Emma wouldn’t mind if Killian traced several other sentiments into a variety of different areas, but they’ve got an audience and a pregnant lady and they never did get coffee. So, it makes sense to ignore that for a second. Or several. 

“I love you,” she says instead. Shouts, really. “More than I realized I could and I—”  
  
Any other words get lost in the feel of Killian’s mouth on hers and the ability of his tongue to incite butterflies in her stomach, and she hardly hears him say _I love you_ back. It doesn’t matter. She hears it on loop for the rest of the day, once they’re ushered unceremoniously out of Belle and Will’s apartment. Neither of them think much about getting coffee. 

And she’s just on the cusp of sleep, eyelashes fluttering and blankets halfway to stolen when Emma hears something else. Pressed into that one spot below her ear. 

“I’ve got no intention of leaving,” Killian whispers, “not because of the magic or the power that comes with it, only because I love you. A ridiculous amount, honestly.”

Sleep seems kind of pointless after that. 

* * *

He decides to leave Mills, eventually. 

“I don’t have magic,” Killian rationalizes, and Emma supposes that makes sense. “But I will need some help finding a job.”

Sliding a file with his name written in swirling script across her desk, he’s got the gall to smirk at her and Emma resists the urge to magic him into her chair. “Luckily I do have other skills, including a job offer—”  
  
“—If you’ve got a job offer, you don’t really need my help.”   
  
“Yeah, but you’re very pretty and I hear you’re real good at what you do.”   
  
“Which is?”   
  
“Moving in with me,” Killian says, which isn’t the last thing she expects but it still manages to catch her off guard. Lights erupt at the end of several strands of hair. “The reaction I was going for, absolutely.”   
  
“No, no, that’s—that’s dumb.”   
  
“Is it?”   
  
“I was going to ask you to move in with me. First.”   
  
“Competitive weirdo.”   
  
“I have an apartment,” Emma argues. “With laundry on site.”   
  
“Ah, yeah, that is a marker in the pro column. Plus, you’ll be there right?”   
  
“In my apartment? Yeah, probably,”

Pushing back on the chair he’d never really been sitting in, Killian leans across Emma’s desk. To kiss her. Hard. Magic flares in the air around them, causing bulbs to flicker and more than a few cries of _get a room_ . “What I’m trying to do,” Killian mumbles. “If you’re asking me to move in, Swan, I’m going to accept.”   
  
“Make it sound less like a warning next time.”

He chuckles against her mouth, either ignoring the desk that must be pressing into his stomach or not bothered by it at all, and Emma tries not to throw herself at him too quickly when he brings a whole box of recently-bought blankets with him.

“So you don’t get cold, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you. Yes, you. Reading this right now. I think you're stellar and it's very nice that you've clicked on this silly little story and read any of the words I am always shoving at the internet and the world is very stressful, so I hope some of those same words helped provide a bit of an escape for at least a little while. 
> 
> As always, I am screaming about fictional characters, hockey players, and my own writing, so come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


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